


Wl^.. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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A 



SPHODELS AN 



D Fa 



ANSIES 



BY / 

AMANDA ELIZABETH DENNIS. 



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PEESS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 
PHILADELPHIA. 

1888. 



f^'.^n 



Copyright, 1888, by Amanda Elizabeth Dennis. 




TO 

MY MOTHEE, 



WHOSE FEET STILL TEEAD THE HITHER SIDE OF THE MYSTIC STREAM, AND 

o'er WHOSE HEAD THE FROSTS OF EIGHTY AUTUMNS 

HAVE WOVEN THEIR SILVERY VEIL, 



THIS VOLUME 



IS TENDERLY AND REVERENTLY DEDICATED. 



PEEFAOE. 



Many times, in the last ten years, have friends asked 
me, "Why do you not publish your poems in book 
form ?" I usually replied to such inquiries by saying, 
Perhaps I will, some of these days. 

And now that the some of these days seems to have 
arrived, I think I am chiefly urged to it by the ex- 
pressed desire of many friends who wish to possess such 
a book. 

And so it has come to pass that I have gathered these 
stray children of my heart, and brain, and imagination 
into one fold, and trust them to the kindly keep and 
care of my friends, known and unknown. Of the for- 
mer, not a few, I am fain to believe, will hold them a 
remembrancer, — a dainty souvenir of one who yet walks 
through the shade and sheen of mortal life, — whose 
hands yet reach, from out the evanescent days, to clasp 
their own in friendship's greeting. Of the latter, may 
I hope some golden-vestured thought of mine, some 
tender dream, or fancy quaintly clothed, will stir the 
waters of their hearts, — stir them to gladness, to renewal 
of hope, — or bring to sorrowing heart the balm that 
sympathy, e'en though told in simple song by stranger 
lips, doth often bring? If this may be, then I shall not 
have written in vain. 

In Asphodels and Pansies my friends will find many 

5 



6 PREFACE. 

of the earlier and later, with not a few of my never- 
before-published poems. 

Before closing this preface, it will not be amiss, per- 
haps, to give the origin of the title and sub-titles of the 
book. 

Out of my tender love for the flowers was born the 
title of my book, — the Asphodels and Pansies standing 
sponsors, and bestowing their joint names upon it. But 
it was with no thought of the ••' sentiments" accorded 
to these, in the " Language of Flowers," that led me to 
call it this. 

The arrangement by which I gathered together cer- 
tain poems whose leading thoughts, expressed or veiled, 
bear some affinity to the " sentiments" expressed by the 
flowers wreathed above them, was an after-thought, — a 
later child of this same love of the flowers. 

Those who are conversant with the "Language of 
Flowers" will find no difficulty in tracing the analogy ; 
while those who are not will, perhaps, find it a pleasant 
pastime to seek to ascertain why Mizpah and Mirbel 
appear in Myrtle and Eoses ; Hazel Deane and Light 
of my Life in Cypress and Yew; Cloud-Land and 
Royal June in Osmunda Leaves and Lupine Sprays, 
etc. And why, under Pomegranate Seed, I have gath- 
ered the evidences that my rather sad Muse, in frolic 
mood, does sometimes go a-straying. 

That my book may not disappoint kind friends is the 
wish and hope of 

THE AUTHOR 



INTEODUCTIOIsr. 



Amanda Elizabeth Dennis was born in what was 
then Worcester, now Wicomico, County, Maryland, 
twelve miles from Snow Hill and fourteen miles from 
Salisbury, at a short distance from the Pocomoke 
Eiver. Here she has spent her whole life, with the 
exception of the few years in which she was a pupil 
of the Western Female High School, Baltimore. 

In the poem '•' Christ Church Bells" vre l^ave glimpses 
of this portion of her unwritten biography. These 
were happy years. At high school the pupils were oc- 
casionally allowed to select subjects for the inevitable 
composition. Upon one such occasion, with many mis- 
givings, she handed in four or five verses, which were 
passed round for examination. The poem was awarded 
a high grade of merit. Her first published poem ap- 
peared in the Baltimore Weekly Sun. 

It would be a work of supererogation to attempt 
a comparative estimate of the varied contents of this 
volume. A friend and trusted adviser thinks her muse's 
flight steadier and better sustained in "Cloud-Land" 
than in any of the poems he has seen. The initial poem, 
"Asphodels and Pansies," is far above a mediocre com- 
position. Of this poem she says, " My love for the 
Asphodels is a dream-love, born of the haunting mem- 
ory of a pathetic little story I read long time ago, but 
my love for the Pansies is an actual and abiding love, 

7 



8 INTRODUCTION, 

with a sort of human, living element in it that makes it 
pathetic, — as if the velvet-eyed darlings love me back." 

Euskin suggests, enough poetry has been written to 
supply all demands, and that those who have written 
grandly, gloriously, and for all time, are those alone to 
whom the world is indebted. There is in nature noth- 
ing redundant, nothing superfluous, even though a bird 
can trill but one note and sing but one song. Flowers 
bloom by the wayside and in the wood, ofttimes sending 
forth their sweet aroma on the " desert air," and though 
these may " blush unseen," the world is sweeter and 
richer in the fact that they have bloomed. 

In the poems of Amanda Elizabeth Dennis the reader 
will discover a shyness and reticence, showing how the 
tide of human suifering has flowed secretly over her 
spirit, shutting in her personality even from the knowl- 
edge of confidential friends. It is not the weird mel- 
ancholy of Edgar Allen Poe, but a gloom begotten of 
intense sympathy with expressionless sorrow, the near- 
ness of her relationship to others' disappointments. 
With no design to draw from her aught which she did 
not choose to reveal, the writer addressed her anony- 
mously some impromptu lines, which probably contrib- 
uted somewhat to the formation of the "resolution" 
which has now taken shape in gathering the stray chil- 
dren of her heart and brain and imagination into one 
fold. 

DAYID WILSON, 
Post Chaplain United States Army. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Asphodels and Pansies 15 

Pansies 18 

St. Elvo 19 

A Fragment . . . , 20 

" The Lifting of the Pog" 20 

" God Chooses our Way^' 21 

Peace and Kest 22 

Alchemy 23 

" Some of These Days" 24 

Misjudged 25 

A Summer Storm 27 

" Take Me into the Sunshine" 28 

Farewell to the Ships 30 

" Sowing in Tears" 31 

Fronti Nulla Fides 31 

Wait, Sweet Day 32 

Singing of the Sun 33 

" 'Tis Braver to Live than to Die" . . . .34 

Broidered with Gold 35 

"Some Time" . 36 

Tired 37 

The New Year 38 

Our Country 40 

Shadow and Sunshine 41 

The Sorrowful, Great Gift 43 

Work 44 

Say Nothing but Good of the Dead . . . .45 

Amid the Corn 46 

I can Wait • . 47 

Dreams 48 

Patience 50 

Laurels 51 

"Some Day" . . . 62 

" The Days keep Coming" 53 

God Bless You ! 54 

The Shadow Between 56 

"It is Better Farther On" 57 



10 CONTENTS. 

Asphodels and Pansies : page 

After a While .68 

A Centennial Poem 59 

The Silence of the Snow 63 

Even-Tide 64 

Quinque Decades ........ 66 

The Prophecy of the Cloud 68 

May-Shine 70 

The Swallow 71 

Poor Salisbury, or Wings of Tire .... 73 

" Let Me Dream Again" 76 

The Song of the Eipening Corn 77 

" Kismet" 78 

The Untroubled Song 80 

I have Tried 82 

Noblesse Oblige 85 

Old Letters 86 

The Altered Kesolve 88 

Ivy and Balm 91 

The Bonny Young Bride of the White House . . 91 

" Auf Wiedersehen" 92 

To Annie 94 

Bonny Belle 95 

For " Dannie" 96 

Semper Fidelis 97 

Lines at Bequest of a Little Friend .... 98 

" Our Minister's Babe" 100 

'Tis such a Little While 100 

Lines in an Album ....... 102 

"The Palling-out of Faithful Friends renewing is of 

Love" 103 

Lines with a Wrought Gift 104 

For Emma's " Scrap-Book" 105 

The Three Kisses 106 

" Waiting and Watching" 107 

A Handful of Letters 108 

Ich Dien.— To Stella 110 

Gladys, the Child of the Fort Ill 

Gladys's Picture .112 

The Bride's Roses 114 

GORSE AND SyRINGA 116 

For my Mother's Sake 116 

To my Mother 117 

Ferns.— A Tribute to the Late Wife of Judge Holland 119 

My Namesake 121 

John Howard Payne 122 

Lavender 123 



CONTENTS. 11 

PAGE 

Myrtle and Eoses . 125 

The Mystery of "Woman's Love 125 

Mizpah 139 

Crystalline 140 

Mirbel 142 

Gott Bei Mit Dir 145 

Selma, my Queen 146 

In Memory ever Dear 147 

Fold them Away Softly 148 

For Thee 149 

"Only to Know" 150 

" When the Pansles Bloom" 151 

Only a Ring 153 

Sometimes Think of Me ...... 154 

" Unto the King Faithful" 155 

Pansies and Hoses 156 

Wait, Mignone, and Bid Me Good-by .... 159 

Ithfa 160 

The Voyager 161 

Good-Night, Beloved 163 

" For Somebody's Sake 164 

" Love's Labor" 166 

Tender and True 167 

St. Valentine 168 

My Ships 169 

Constancy 171 

Retrospection 173 

The Unattainable 174 

" Never a Dream of Mine Came True" . . .176 

Gypsy Lore 177 

It is Better as it is 179 

What are Dreams ? 180 

God Keepeth Watch above His Own .... 183 

Sing Low ......... 184 

Only This 185 

Your Letters 186 

"Katie" 187 

Cypress and Yew 189 

Apple Blossoms 189 

At my Brother's Grave 190 

Ebb-Tide 192 

Lines to a Robin 193 

Jenny 194 

Our Dead Friend 195 

Our Eva 197 

Wee Bessie 198 

Belle - 199 



12 CONTENTS. 

Cypress and Yew: page 

"Forgotten" 200 

Heavy Clouds of Ashen Gray 202 

Waiting for the Dawn 203 

At your Grave 205 

Polded Away 207 

So Soon, Oh ! Beloved, so Soon 209 

Do the Dead Know? 209 

Little Pearl 211 

Not all Answered 212 

Beneath the Maple's Shade 213 

<' God, knowing All, knows what is the Best" . . 214 

Light of my Life 214 

He Hath Borne our Griefs 216 

Faded Ere the Noontide 217 

Hazel Deane 218 

Under the Snow 220 

Let us go Back 221 

Hope is Dead 222 

Empty Hands 223 

How Edith Helped Mamma to Die .... 225 

Dead— On Christmas Day ! 227 

Passion-Elowers and Almond-Buds .... 229 

Our Bible 230 

Our Church 230 

Our Semi-Centennial 231 

Conference 236 

That Eades not Away 240 

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep 241 

At the " Gate called Beautiful" 242 

Christ Church Bells 244 

There's a Green Hill Far Away 246 

" The Land o' the Leal" 247 

" Still Waters" 248 

Far-Away Voices ; or, " The Lord hath Need of All". 249 

Thanksgiving 251 

The Year's Last Sabbath 252 

"Nassawango" 253 

" Our Missionary to Japan" 256 

A Prayer 258 

Sabbath-Day. . . - 258 

Christmas 259 

"The Kock that is Higher than I" . . . .261 

God Knows Best 262 

The Path that Lies Before 263 

" The Home of the Soul" 264 

" The Smiling City" 265 

Rika Matsuda 267 



CONTENTS. 13 

Passion-Flowers and Almond-Buds: page 

The Master's Workers 268 

Jeliovah-jireh 269 

The Valley of Kest 271 

OsMUNDA Leaves and Lupine Sprays .... 273 

Autumn Days 273 

Golden Summer 274 

Koyal June 276 

The Vanished Year 278 

My Bonny Barque 279 

Indian Summer 281 

A September Sunset 282 

Out on the Sea 283 

My Castle in Spain 285 

" The Glory of the Sunset Hills" . . . .287 

Star-Elves 287 

Swiftly the Long Days 288 

In the Firelight 290 

Fantasia 291 

Cloud-Land . 293 

Shadows ......... 296 

Autumn 297 

A Kequiem 298 

Summer Sunshine 299 

The Bird's Lament 301 

The Sunset Palace 302 

Storm-Spirits 304 

The Fair Sweet Isle 305 

"The Phoenix" 307 

Wind of the Southern Sea 309 

June the Beautiful 310 

The Isles of Balm 311 

The March Wind 313 

Earth's Bridal .314 

Wind of the Sea, come Softly 316 

Eain, and Wind, and Clouds 317 

The Palace of the Years 318 

Summer is Dying ! 321 

Fata Morgana 322 

Barberry 324 

" Consider the Beam in Thine Own Eye" . . . 324 

To Harry F 325 

Pomegranate Seeds 328 

"Chagrin" 328 

The Old Umbereller 331 

Khymes a la Longfellow . . . . . . 333 

The " District" School in Winter . . . .335 

Paper Collars 336 



ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 



ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

You ask me why I love them so ! 

The Asphodels' rich splendor 
Fills m}^ soul with golden dreams, 

And fancies quaint and tender ; 
And, well you know, the Pansies are 

Of flower-friends my nearest ; 
And chief among the Sisterhood, 

I hold them fairest, dearest. 



From out the glow of Asphodels j 

I weave transcendent stories i 

With warp and weft, a golden mesh, j 

Of Fancy-fettered glories. 1 

The Pansies lift, through tears of dew, 

Their velvet eyes' soft splendor ; 
I kneel and press them to my lips "] 

With gesture fond and tender. j 

I 
The Asphodels' unstinted bloom • 

Glads with its rare profusion ; 
I drink from every golden leaf 

Some nectarous infusion. \ 

The Pansies lift their velvet lips 

When near the night is pressing ; 
I kneel and hold them 'gainst my cheek 

With Love's unchid caressing. 

The golden fields of Asphodels 

Blend with each gladsome vision ; i 

I see, beyond the hills of day, \ 

Their counterpart elysian. { 

15 I 

i 



16 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

The Pansies wait beside my door, 

Sweet-breathed and pensive-mannered 

My hands caress with loving touch 
The sweet host purple-bannered. 

You ask me why I love them so ! 

Love knows no why nor wherefore ! 
I am not wiser than my kind, 

And give no reason therefore ; 
I only know I love them well, 

'No flower-love comes nearer ; 
The Pansies lie against my heart, ■ 

Than Asphodels scarce dearer. ■ 

I may not say wherefore, nor why, > 

Of all Grod's radiant flowers, i 

Just these should bear ray thoughts more oft I 

To Heaven's perennial bowers ; 
Nor why the glow of Asphodels 

Brings all the glad earth nearer ; 
Nor why the Pansies' velvet touch j 

Makes every fond love dearer ! ! 

Nor why from gold of Asphodels, ! 

The Pansies' Tyrian splendor. 
My heart can fill the Summer halls 

With pictures warm and tender; j 

From out their splendors crown the years, ; 

And fill their mystic story i 

With golden songs and fragrant thoughts, • 

And dreams of Heaven's glory ! j 

1 

Life is too bare to throw away ' 

E'en flower-love uncherished ; I 

Perchance their fragrance countervails j 

Some golden hope that perished. I 

Perchance these flowers I love so well j 

Have some such tender mission ; j 

Perchance ; then shall I make it naught j 

By lack of full submission ? 1 



ASPHODELS AND PANSTES. 17 ^ 

J 

Life is too bare. I cannot risk : 

The loss of one dear treasure; 
But you, whose coffers burst with gold, 

Scarce notice weight or measure; ] 

While we, who count our treasures few, 1 

Must hold them blessings surer, "i 

Of lawful weight and measurement, j 

Of value rarer, purer. | 

Life is too short. We cannot build | 

On ruins, howe'er golden, j 

The same fair structure that we reared j 

Within the sunshine olden ; j 

We can but gather what is left, •■ 

And build of hopes defeated \ 

Some little temple, where the soul :; 

Walks softly, heaven-greeted. j 

Some little temple where soft lights, ! 

Like Asphodels wind-shaken, \ 

Fall athwart the dim-lit nave i 

And sweeter thoughts awaken ; ,: 

Some altar, o'er whose cloth of gold j 

Soft breath of incense lingers, \ 

Like garnered breath of Pansies, caught i 

From Morning's dewy fingers. i 

Life is too bare ! I cannot hold 

E'en flower-love uncherished ! 1 

And Love need be no mendicant, ■ 

Whatever bloom has perished. 
Upon the dear Earth's throbbing breast 

I lay my heart love-fashion, '. 

And leave, amid its scent and bloom, j 

Life's mingled pain and passion.' j 

1 

The golden fields of Asphodels \ 

G-row into fadeless bowers ; ; 

The Pansies' Tyrian splendor crowns ; 

The mystic Sunset towers. i 

2 ] 



18 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Above all flowers they hold for me j 

Some charm I find too tender ] 

To lay aside for sweeter breath, ; 
Or bloom of rarer splendor. 

But why I love them so, oh, friend ! ■ 

The answer falters, lino;ers, 
The while I hold the Pansy blooms 1 

With wistful, loving fingers ; \ 

The while I look across the fields, 

With eyes grown strangely tender, \ 

To catch their light of waving gold, ' 

The Asphodels' rich splendor ! 
1887. 



PANSIES. i 

I 



Op all the glorious Sisterhood of Flowers, 
The fair, sweet Priestesses of bloom, 
That set their altars on the green hill-slopes, 
And build their shrines within the Summer dells, 
That fill the Summer, nave and dome, with incense- 
laden breath. 
And lift the World's cold heart above its empty creeds, 
The sweetest are these vestals, velvet-l.ipped and dewy- 
eyed, 
That watch within the glimmer of the Summer's altar 

fires, 
These golden-hearted mem'ries of the Past, 
These wardens of the Now, these couriers of the Far- 
away; 
These flowers we love, almost as if they loved us back. 
As if they held some principle of human life and need 
The loving Father dropped within no other flower- 
heart ; 
These flowers, velvet-lipped and dewy-eyed, 
We love, and christen Pansies ! 



ST. ELVO. 19 

Ah ! Grod was good when o'er the earth He threw 

Broadcast a marvellous sheen of flowers, 

A glorious mosaic of leafage and of bloom ; 

Fair, radiant censers, that with multitude of odors 

Fill the corridors of morn, and freight the evening 

aisles with balm. 
Ay, God was very good ; and, for His wealth of 

flowers. 
His rose of Sharon, and its offspring countless as the 

stars. 
His Lily of the Yalley, and its seed, wind-blown to 

every sunny quarter of the globe, 
His myriad ministers of scented light and bloom, 
His silent comforters in many an hour of grief. 
His fair, sweet, gracious gift of floivers, I give Him 

grateful thanks. 
But most I prize, most tenderly I love. 
The flowers so velvet-lipped and dewy-eyed, 
The flowers we christen Pansies ! 
1887. 



ST. ELYO. 



Summer stands where the sweet Year slopes 

Toward the plains of the Sunset Land ; 
I gather the gleams of its flickering hopes, 

And hold them back with a wistM hand. 
Beautiful hopes, must ye drift away ? 

Beautiful dream-lights, must ye fade ? 
Over the hills of the bliss-crowned day 

Lingering footsteps gather the shade. 
Lingering voices, tender and low, 

Eender the sweet Year doubly fair; 
Why should the sweetness of beauty grow 

Ten-fold sweeter beneath despair? 
Across the Summer's vanished smiles 

I lean my wistful heart to-night. 
And out of all its scented aisles 

I hold one doubly sweet and bright, 



20 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. ^ 



I hold one doubly dear and fair. 

Come life or death, I hold it aye, 
My treasure-trove, my jewel rare, 

My crown of faith, my wreath of bay 
Come life or death, it matters not, 

God's love is surer than our tears ; 
To wait is but our common lot, 

However long the wistful years. 
And so I hold it doubly dear. 

This sweet, sad Summer of delight; 
The years may drift to shadows drear. 

They cannot blur its treasured light ! 



A FRAGMENT. 



The days are all wet with the damp of the sea ; 

The nights are all cold with the breath of the spray ] 
But the wild winds' song is as music to me, 

And the days are as sweet as the heart of May. 

I know I am cheating myself with wild dreams ; 

They'll crumble to dust 'neath my pitiful gaze; 
But my heart is glad for the tiniest gleams 

It can hoard away for the sorrowful days. 

Then sing on, oh ! winds, ye are stormy and cold ! 

And days, ye are wet with the damp of the sea ! 
But I can array ye in vestments of gold. 

And crown ye with gems that are priceless to me. 
1875. 



''THE LIFTING OF THE FOG." 

As through the gleaming rifts. 

That cut, like golden threads, the veiling mist, 
We sometimes catch the radiant glow 

Of Orient meadows sunshine-kissed, 



''GOD CHOOSES OUR WAT.'' 21 

So, in the veiling mists of pain 
There comes sometimes a tiny rift, 

Through which, like waves of molten gold, 
Dear Heaven's sunbeams softly drift. 

And faint and worn with waiting long, 
We hold the transient amber gleams 

Sweet promises of happier things 
Beyond a world of emj^ty dreamt. 

As with the lifting of the fog 

Levantine splendors gleam anew, 
So shall the veiling mists of pain 

Drift by and leave us clearer view. 

And fairer isles, mayhap for us, 

Lie just beyond the cold, gray mists; 

Only the loving Father knows 
All that the patient spirit lists. 

God's sunlight gilds the happy hills 
Beyond the veiling mists of time ; 

The " fog is lifting" from our souls ; 
We'll see at last the heights sublime. 
1883. 



"GOD CHOOSES OUE WAY." 

" God chooses our way." It must be right ! 

But our shrinking footsteps halt and fail 
When daylight settles to sudden night, 

To pitiless gloom and a tempest wail. 
Our aching eyes are blinded with tears ; 

Our aching hearts are heavy with pain ; 
But far-away ages gather the years. 

And the dreams of life are all in vain I 
2* 



22 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES, 

" God chooses our way." It must be best, 

All rough and lonely though it be ; 

In God's own time a sweet, sweet rest j 

Will come, dear love, for yoa and me. j 

I know 'tis so ; and yet, and yet, j 

Our human hearts must learn the cost j 

Of many a fond, but vain regret, ! 

Ere yet the sea of life is crossed. .^ 

"God chooses our way." I know 'tis right! - 

But — the sweetness of life has faded away ; I 
And the brightness of day, and the splendor of night, ! 

Seem smitten with shadows of sudden decay. i 

" God chooses our way," but the world seems wrong, 1 

And the pitiless days are heavy and slow. | 

Oh ! for a heart grown brave and strong, i 

To bear life's heaviest pain and woe! ,1 

" God chooses our way." I've faltered too long . 

On the threshold of His chosen way, j 
Folding the prayers that I knew were wrong 

Into the folds of each passing day. i 

" God chooses our way." It is right and best ! ; 

Whatever sorrow, or pain, or ache 

It holds to mar life's beautiful rest, j 

I'll bear it all for His dear sake. j 



PEACE AND KEST. i 

Some day, when I shall lay aside my accustomed work, ; 
And lie, with folded hands, too tired and weak j 

To ever take it up again, j 

If some dear friend would come and sit within the ] 
shadowy room, | 

And talk to me of that dear land whose peace 
Is endless as the love that made it so. 
And sing some sweet, pathetic song, 
Whose tender theme is " Eest, dear Eest," 



ALCHEMY. 23 

Methinks 'twould be so sweet to die, 
To close my eyes, and go away 

With those two words, so softly blended, falling on my 
dying ears. 

And if, when I am dead, some tender hand 

Should wish to rear, above my dreamless head. 

Some dear remembrancer of love, — to carve on snowy 

marble 
Some tender breath of praise to tell the looker-on 
Who sleeps beneath the marble's snow, — 
I'd beg the dear hand stay its touch ; 
To put aside the studied word and phrase. 
And only carve, in letters clear and white, 
The two dear words, whose blessedness 
M}^ ransomed soul at last has gained, 
The sweet words Peace — Best! 
1883. 



ALCHEMY. 



Patience is the brave old Alchemist, 

That shuts himself within the laboratory of the heart, ' 

And, with slow hands and infinite endeavor, 

Transmutes our sorrows into golden joys! ''■ 

That from the crucible of defeated hopes j 

Brings forth a golden promise of far happier things ; j 

And from the baser metals of unsatisfied desire, j 

And oft-repeated failure of design, i 

Brings forth the shining gold of fructifying faith j 

And triple-strengthened fortitude. ' 



And lo ! our sorrows, like transfigured souls. 

Walk softly, with unsandaled feet, along our daily way ; 

And Hope unveils her tender, sapphire eyes. 

And lifts the scales from our beclouded sight. 

And lo ! the sunburst of immortal truth 

Sweeps down athwart the ever-vernal hills. 

And pours its golden glory on the mist-enveloped vales. 



24 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. j 

And fond Desire folds down her wishes and regrets, : 

And seeks, across wide leagues of stormiest waves, ! 

The fair, sweet " Isle of Heart's Content ;" j 

And Faith, with tenderest hand, unfurls her stainless ! 

banner j 

Upon the broken heights of our defeated dreams ; ' 

And Endurance, with her soft, pathetic eyes ' 

Bright with the sacrificial dew of wordless prayer, ■ 
Unlocks the chamber of each waiting day. 

And marks the duties and the cares that lie therein ; , 

And writes above the lintel — when the long, long day | 

is done — ! 

Her own brave motto and device, — Jjo ! all things can \ 



be borne ! 
1878. 



"SOME OF THESE DAYS." 

" Some of these days," — how soft and slow 
The vague, sweet words fall on the ear ! 

Touching the heart with their wistful flow. 
Their tremulous blending of hope and fear. 

" Some of these days" we shall be so wise ; 

So brave to do ; so strong to bear ; 
The goal is dim to our wistful eyes, 

But Faith's sure guerdon waiteth there. 

" Some of these days" our eyes shall see, 
More clearly than they do to-day. 

How sweet and true a life may be 
With all its brightness swept away. 

" Some of these days" our hearts shall know, 

More fully than they do to-day. 
The tenderness that dealt the blow 

That turned our dreams to ashes gray. 



MISJUDGED. 25 

" Some of these days" our feet shall turn 

Into calmer, sunnier ways ; 
"Some of these days" our hands shall learn 

To garland grief with wreaths of praise. 

" Some of these days" — ah me ! ah me ! 

We're weak, and oh ! so tired to-day ! 
But, " some of these days" how strong we'll be ! 

How brave to go God's chosen way ! 

And " some of these days" it will all be o'er ! 

Folded palms on a pulseless breast ; 
Tired hearts griefless for evermore, — 

" Some of these days" we shall be at rest ! 

1880. 



MISJUDGED. 



Time was, if you had taken the hand 

I held to you in friendly grasp, — 

No woman e'er had truer friend, — 

More faithful and more tender, — 

No pain should e'er have touched your life 

Through any thought or wish of mine. 

And I, — I should have been so glad 

To have called you friend in those old days ! 

You had it in your power to make me love you, 

As woman ne'er was loved before. 

And yet, you thrust aside, as something too unworthy 

for possessing. 
The love that would have crowned you 
With a dearness not your due by sacred right of self. 



You had no right to judge me for what your selfish | 

nature could not comprehend ; 
Far greater hearts, and true, — and those who knew me 

best, — 
Ne'er gave me word of censure or reproach ; 
But, from the white soul's spotless truth, 



26 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Adjudged me honorable and free from blame, 
And gave me fullest meed of honor and esteem. 

By thought, or act, or wish of mine, 

No darkness ever gloomed your sky : 

I'd sooner, far, have held vay palm 

Within the red flame's fiery glow, 

Than to have brought one conscious sorrow to your 

heart, — 
I would e'en now ; although the love. 
That longed to hold you to my breast. 
Is lying very cold and still. 

With not one flower within the poor, pale hands 
That ne'er will crave your friendship more. 

So be it ; you and I will go our separate ways ; 

The dear Lord judge between us, — not you nor I ! 

There is no hardness in my soul ; and yet, 

If I were dying now, and one should say 

Your love would save me, and be mine for the asking, 

I would not lift my dying hand to la}^ within 

Your palm, and thus win back the life you robbed of 

all its sweetness. 
For when, with cold assumption of disdain, 
You spurned the friendship I was fain to give, 
The warmth and loveliness of life grew strangely cold 

and dim ; 
And the olden sorrow swelled above the brightness of 

the fair, white day. 
But be it so ; I'd sooner bear, in loneliness and silence, 

aye. 
Whatever sorrow Heaven may send, 
Than harbor, in my heart, your hardness and disdaining. 

The Lord between us judge, — never more 
Shall hand of mine reach forth to win your friendship. 
But the olden prayer will not forget 
To fold your name somewhere within its daily breath, 
Though eyes, and lips, and heart may seem 
To have learned, too well, the lesson of forgetful n ess. 
1883. 



A SUMMER STORM. 27 



A SUMMEE STOEM. i 

The solemn pines, in their stately way, i 

Gather the flush of the dying day, j 

And hold it a moment, still and warm, ; 

Despite the wrath of the mutt'ring storm, : 
Whose flying couriers, through the air, 
Leap from the gloom of their unseen lair 

To herald the coming fray. i 

And over the West, still warm and bright ; 

With the last fond kiss of the Sun's good-night, 
Eises a column, majestic and grand. 
The wild-wrought dream of an unseen hand, 
Eiven, and burnished, with here and there 
The gleaming trail of the lightning's glare ; 

Turning the gloom-to lurid day. 

Along the West, in shadowy lines, •■ 

I catch a glimpse of the solemn pines 
Swaying despondently to and fro. 
Ablaze in the lightning's vivid glow. 
Answering the Storm-King's battle-song 
With shivering threnodes, wild and long, [ 

Like haunting voices from the sea. 

Tempest and darkness ! — furious and high i 

The bannered winds go clamoring by ! ! 

The lightnings flash, the thunder-bursts roar ! ; 

The wild rain beats at the panelled door! \ 

And I sit here, thinking how still and bright j 

The morn will wake from the stormy night, ; 

Eadiant, gladsome, and free ! j 

And it minds me so of the Dream called Life, 
Tempest-tossed often, and full of strife; 
Wounded with loss, and hurt with dismay ; 
Crowded with toil, and worn with delay ; 



28 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Body and soul would fain be at rest, 
Glad to relinquish Life's sorrowful quest 
For Lethe, and dreamless sleep. 

But after the night and tempest are past, 
Life will be joyous and sweet at the last; 
Sunshine and flowers will crowd with perfume 
The storm-drenched pathways of sorrow and gloom,- 
Over the hills shines the brightness of day. 
Tempest and darkness have all passed away ! 
Why should we sorrow and weep ? 
1874. 



"TAKE ME INTO THE SUJ^SHINE." 

"Take me into the sunshine." The low voice made 

me start ! 
I turned and clasped my darling close to my aching 

heart ; 
I kissed the weary eyelids, the sweet lips wan and 

white, 
And bore my precious darling into the sunshine bright. 

I watched the dear eyes brighten, the color come and 

go — 
A rose-flush o'er the wanness of the fair cheeks' pearly 

snow; 
I felt the faint heart throbbing fast, and full, and 

strong. 
And caught the thrill of gladness that ran her veins 

along. 

And on her lips there lingered a smile of sweetest 

grace, 
And light, more fair than sunshine, baptized her lovely 

face. 
She drank the 'wildering music that filled the pulsing 

air 
With lips that mingled softly a blessing with a prayer. 



''TAKE ME INTO THE SUNSHINE.'' 29 

And I, — I held her closely; but I thought with secret 

pain 
Of all the golden sunshine I hoarded once in vain ; 
And all the bloom and fragrance that faded out of 

sight,— 
The fair, sweet day that faltered to bleakness and to 

night. 

But I held her all the closer for the ache that filled my 

breast, 
And I kissed the lips, half quivering, till they settled 

into rest ; 
For the patient child had taught me a lesson sweet but 

slow, 

There's a balm for every sorrow, and a solace for each 

woe! 

And so I rocked her softly, in the sunshine pure and 

warm, 
Till the dear head dropped in slumber upon my circling 

arm ; 
And Eve came up, with banners all fringed with sunset 

gold, 
And kissed the snow-white forehead with tenderness 

untold. 

And o'er my soul came softly something beside a 

prayer, 
As I kissed the golden meshes of my darling's sun-: 

bright hair; 
And I whispered, Father, take me into the sunshine fair 
Of thine own loving-kindness, thy keeping, and thy 

care ! 

" Take me into the Sunshine,^^ out of the shadowy way 
My restless feet have wandered for many a weary day ! 
Oh, take me into the sunshine, life and heart and soul, 
And bind each passion-grieving beneath thy sweet con- 
trol! 
1877. 

3 



30 ASPHODELS AND PANSTES. 



FAEEWELL TO THE SHIPS. 

Farewell to the ships, that bend to the gale 
The fluttering breadth of each snowy sail! 
Over the breast of the billowy miles 
They steer for the strands of sunnier isles. 

Farewell to the ships ! May the sweet winds blow 

Steadily, steadily over the glow 

Of widening billows, till they bear 

The brave, white ships to their havens fair. 

Farewell to the ships ! But, oh, for a day 
To speed them again on their homeward way. 
Laden with riches from kindlier lands, 
Agleam with the wealth of sunnier strands ! 

Farewell to the ships we have built so fair. 
From the strong, brave keel to the pennant square, 
And launched, and laden with costlier store 
Than e'er was gathered from fabulous shore ! 

Farewell to the ships we have sent away 
Beyond the mists of the glittering spray, — 
Seeking, o'er billows of trackless extent. 
The mystical island of "Heart's Content!" 

Farewell to the ships! May the sweet winds blow 

Steadily, steadily, till they go 

The liquid length of the glittering miles 

That kiss the feet of the palm-crowned isles ! 

Farewell to the ships! But, oh, for a day 
To speed them again on their homeward wa}^ ! 
For the watchers' lips are wan and pale 
For the snowy glint of a homeward sail ! 
1885. 



FRONTI NULLA FIDES. 31 



^'SOWING IN TEARS." 

*' Sowing in tears." Oh, heart be glad I 

The promise stands for aye, 
" They that sow in tears shall reap 

In joy" some gladsome day. 

Go thou forth with the precious seed, 

Water it with thy tears ; 
Golden frnit shall crown, some day, 

The patient toil of years. 

And thou shalt come again, dear heart, 
Bringing thy sheaves with thee ; 

And thou shalt learn, through pain and tears, 
Still sweet thy life may be ! 

Ay, thou hast sown, in tears, dear heart; 

But thou shalt come again, 
Bringing with thee thy golden sheaves 

To compensate life's pain ! 
1885. 



FRONTI NULLA FIDES. 

Judge not the heart by the laughing eye. 
Nor the lips by the songs they sing ; 

A mountain-bird may essay to fly 

With the fowler's shot beneath her wing. 

And the sweetest song e'er penned or sung 
May well from the depths of an aching heart, 

And the brightest smile that ever hung 
On ripe, red lips, hide Sorrow's smart. 



32 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES, 

And the ready jest and repartee 
May often hush a sigh, you know; 

And the saddest heart in the world may be 
The one that makes no sign of woe. 

Oh, judge ye not by the outward mien ! 

There's many a fate that's hard to bear! 
And the weakest heart in the world, I ween, 

Is fain to hide a vain despair. 

Ah ! the golden years are glad and strong ! 

But the days, the days, are weary and slow! 
God pit}^ the heart that weaves a song 

From its own unsounded depths of woe I 



WAIT, SWEET DAY. 

Wait, sweet Day, till I gather these threads 

Of glittering pearl and shining gold ; 
I'm weaving a web of marvellous light, 
And want to garnish one gleaming fold 
With threads of splendor deftly spun 
From the golden glories of the sun. 

See! where I throw the shuttle across, 

I prison a glittering thread each time; 
And the soft clank-clank of the mystic sley 
Falls like a sweet bell's elfin chime ; 
And I watch, with eyes of glad delight, 
The soft threads broaden into light. 

Wait, sweet Day, I shall soon be done ! 

Only one bar of roseate light 
To touch this fold of shadowy gray 
With fairer tints of beauty bright ; 
And one soft dash of firmer gold 
Across this hazy, amber fold ! 



SINGING OF THE SUN. 33 ] 

There, I am done ! Go6d-by, sweet Day ! j 

I hear the call of the Sunset bell ; , 

You've barred the gates of the golden West 1 

And breathed o'er them your magic spell ; 1 

But I fold my web of glittering light 

With tender hands and fond delight. , 



SINGING OF THE SUN. ) 

You have walked in the mystical glow j 

Of a beautiful, cloudless time ; i 

Have stood breast-high in the odorous bloom | 

Of a radiant, summer clime; i 

And you found it easy enough, I ween, | 

To sing of the glorious sun, 

With its warmth in your heart, its glow on your brow, i 

And the fair, sweet day scarce begun. i 

But the mystical glow paled out in the East, 

The zenith sun faded from sight, : 

And the Occident hills gave their cresting of gold ! 

To the shadowy clasp of the night ; ■ 

And the odorous bloom of the fair, glad time j 

Went out with the sorrowful day ; • 

And you sat in the dark, and forgot, oh ! friend, i 

That the sun still shone — far away ! ; 

'Tis easy to know that the night is past j 

When we walk in the fair, broad day ; ! 
And 'tis easy, my friend, to " sing of the sun" 

When we sit in its glad, warm ray. ; 
But oh ! 'tis hard, so hard, dear friend. 

To sit in the shadow for aye, ; 

And forget all the passion and pain, ; 

And to " sing of the sun" alway ! ^: 

It were wiser and better, no doubt, ! 

To master the task you've assigned ; i 

3* 



34 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

A ship may go down in mid-sea 
And leave not a vestige behind ; 

But the passionate waves aye recall 
The wail of the poor, drowning men ; 

And the whispering winds learn the tale, 
And tell it again and again ! 

And I think that the gladdest of songs 

Has ever a sorrowful note 
Under the thrill of the happier chords 

That swell in the singer's throat ; 
Owlj we cannot gather and hold 

The throb and thrill of that minor chord, — 
The rhythmic flow of the minor notes 
. The singers or ourselves have marred. 

Ah ! yes, 'twere wiser and better. I ween, 

To master a task so sublime ; 
But only the hearts that are swiftest to learn, 

Could risk such a waste of time ; 
For oh ! 'tis hard, so hard, dear friend, 

To sit in the shadow for aye, 
And forget all the passion and pain, 

And to "sing of the sun" alway! 
1886. 



"'TIS BEAYER TO LIYE THAN TO DIE." 

"'Tis braver to live than to die," so jou write ; J 

Axiomatic, as sunshine and shade ! \ 

For who of us need to be told that the light ; 

Will golden the East when the star-beams fade ? , 

The things that are easy to do, oh, my friend ! 

Need only the skill of a willing hand ! ■ 

As the things that are easy to bear, my friend. 

Need only a glad heart's diligence bland ! 



B ROW E RED WITH GOLD. 35 

But, oh ! for the things that are grievous to bear ! 

And, oh ! for the things that are heavy to do ! 
What if the spirit lose heart in despair? 

And what if the hand be less brave than 'tis true? 

I think it is harder to live than to die ! 

Hence " braver" — it must be — " to live," as you say ; 
But the bravest have moments when courage must lie 

Apant 'neath the conflict and heat of the day. 

" 'Tis braver to live," but 'tis better to die 
When bravest endeavor brings only defeat; 

" Nothing but leaves" for the bounteous supply 
We had hoped to glean in the evening sweet ! 

" 'Tis braver to live than to die," so you write, 

And your words have the ring of a jubilant psalm ; 

But I am less brave than weary to-night. 
And long ^ov-rest more than victory's palm ! 
1886. 



BEOIDEEED WITH GOLD. 

Broidered with gold are the fair, sweet days, 
But the shadowy gloaming shows its wings ; 

Full is the earth of the song-birds' praise, 
But the wind is singing of lonelier things. 

The gold-broidered days keep ever their way ; 

The shadowy gloamings deepen and pale; 
The music of birds is the pulse of the day, 

And the wild wind's song is ever a wail. 

And life, — it is grand for the strong, brave heart 
That skilfully masters its passion and pain ; 

But what of the spirits that stand apart. 
Wounded and worn by the combacy vain ? 



36 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Ah ! what are the gold-broidered days to them ! 

And the music of birds is lonelier still ! 
Oh ! the tide is cruel we cannot stem, 

And the pain is cruel we cannot kill ! 

But the battle that lasts so long shall bring 
Gruerdon of peace for defeat and maim, 

As the gladdest of songs the martyrs sing 
Is the one they chant in the red-hot flame. 

Broidered with gold are the fair, sweet days, — 
Prophecy, maybe, of peace that shall dim 

The hurt and heat of the battle's blaze, 
As the soul is soothed by a restful hymn. 

And over it all shall fall, at the last. 

The sweetest and deepest of unbroken calms, 

When the battle of life is over and past, 

And the heart is still 'neath the folded palms. 



SOME TIME.' 



Oh ! when will it come ? That beautiful time ! i 

That tenderest hope of the Poet's rhyme ! ■ 

It floats through our dreams, fair off'spring of JN'ight, j 

Alluring us still with its marvellous light. < 

A will-o'-the-wisp, it gleams down our way, 1 

With prophecies sweet of a happier day. j 

Mid labor unceasing, mid storm-clouds of grief, \ 

We watch and we wait, with the fondest belief, | 
For the beautiful day that will come " Some time." 

Life's psalm of thanksgiving may drop to a prayer, j 

Or change to a threnode of wildest despair; j 

Our footsteps may wander in perilous ways, ' 

Beset with wild dangers and worn with delays. \ 

But over us e'er, like a love-beacon bright, \ 

This beautiful dream sheds its marvellous light ; ■ 



TIRED. 37 i 

And sorrow and tears are but things of to-day, i 

And Hope scorns the snares of the perilous way, ; 

For a beautiful rest will be ours — " Some time. " j 

j 

Life's labor of love may seem all in vain ; j 

Its fair-seeming pleasures bring nothing but pain ; I 

We grope in the darkness, forlorn and distressed, i 

Too proud to complain, too impatient to rest, .' 

But down in our hearts sleeps this marvellous dream, ! 

To comfort us still with its soul-cheering gleam. ] 

Mid labor unceasing, mid storm-clouds of grief, ; 

We watch and we wait, with the fondest belief, ; 
For the beautiful life that will come " Some time." 



TIEED. i 

Tired, so tired ! Yet the fair young Day ] 

Has scarce put oif her garments gray, i 

And brushed the foam from her amber hair, j 

And decked her brow with jewels rare. i 

But I look across the dew-wet fields, • 

And my weary spirit almost yields ■ 

In tame submission to the pain j 

That steals the strength from heart and brain, — i 

The hot bright hours beat slowly on, | 

Their old, fresh bloom and fragrance gone ! ■ 

Tired, so tired ! But the morn is past ! 

The noontide sun is overcast 

With cool, gray clouds, from towards the sea, 

That come to rest and strengthen me. \ 

The clustering boughs of the green-robed trees ■ 

Imprison the coy, coquettish breeze, — 

But I labor on in a weary way, ] 

Too tired to think, too tired to pray, I 

While the prisoned zephyr's sighs 

Drift upward to the wistful skies ! 



38 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Tired, so tired ! But the Noon is past ! 
The western pines long shadows cast; 
The sun dips low in a barque of gold ; 
The clouds swing high, the day grows old ; 
Across the fields long shadows fall ; 
The Dew-bells sound their vesper call 
The wild bird seeks his sheltered nest 
The wind sleeps on the billow's breast 
The fire-flies trim their fitful lamps 
Amid the " Evening dews and damps !" 

Tired, so tired ! But the Night is here ! 

The blessed Night, so still and clear! 

The Moon rides high, in a silver car, 

Each shining steed a fair, white star. 

The Whip-poor-will's low, fitful strain 

Drifts softly through the open pane ; 

The Eoses sleep against the wall, — 

I sit and watch the moonlight fall 

Athwart the bright fields' dewy length, — 

The Night brings rest, and peace, and strength ! 



THE NEW YEAE. 

Oh ! New Year, fair and golden ! 

Up the rugged steeps of Time 
You come, with the music olden 

Of bells and songs sublime! 
Life's promise sweet you're bringing 

To bless the waiting land, 
While heaven and earth are ringing 

With pseans loud and grand. 

The Old Year furled his pinions 
In the midnight silence deep. 

And your golden-hearted minions 
Came to soothe his death-long sleep ; 



THE NEW YEAR. 39 

And they wove a pall of splendor 

From a web of frozen air, 
And with fingers soft and tender 

Threw it o'er his snowy hair ; 

And laid him down to slumber, 

In the crypt of buried years 
Where the ages bear no number 

And the mourners shed no tears ; 
But a silence dim and holy 

Broods above the dreamless dead, 
Where the lofty and the lowly 

Sleep within one common bed. 

Oh ! JSTew Year, fair and golden ! 

Up the rugged steeps of Time 
You come, with the music olden 

Of bells and songs sublime. 
I catch the joyous fleetness 

Of your pinions light and fair. 
And the wild, melodious sweetness 

Of your voice drifts through the air. 

Oh ! New Year, true and tender ! 

From your treasures save me one 
That shall match the royal splendor 

Of the noonday's golden sun. 
I will guard its stainless brightness, 

I will keep it chaste and fair 
As the snow-drift's virgin whiteness, 

Or the pearl's resplendence rare. 

Only save me one fair jewel, 

As a safeguard through the year, 
When life's behests seem cruel. 

Its pathway hedged with fear, — 
One fair, sweet charm to shield me 

From Hfe's excess of pain ; 
One fair, sweet hope to yield me 

Of pleasure some dear gain. 



40 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Oh ! New Year, fair and golden ! 

Up the rugged steeps of Time 
You come, with the music olden 

Of bells and songs sublime ! 
Life's promise sweet you're bringing 

To bless the waiting land, 
And heaven and earth are ringing 

With paeans loud and grand ! 



OUE COUNTEY. 



Oh ! fair, and fairest of the fair ! 
Oh ! beautiful beyond compare ! 

Oh ! lovely Sunset Land ! 
Our hearts, grown tender 'neath the grace 
And witchery of thy dear face. 

With grateful love expand. 

Thou seem'st a fond and tender friend 
Upon whose love our souls depend 

For sunshine sweet and bland ; 
1^0 other land so dear can be ; 
No other land so proud and free ! 

Oh 1 beauteous Sunset Land ! 

Our Country's God, to thee we raise 
Our hearts in songs of boundless praise 

For this dear gleaming strand, — 
This home of ours, by Freedom blest, — 
This Wonder of the glorious West, — 

This radiant Sunset Land ! 

And in the shelter of thine arms 
We'll hush to rest the weak alarms 

We cannot understand ; 
Content to trust the loving care 
That clothes with beauty ever fair 

Our own dear Sunset Land ! 



1882. 



SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. 41 



SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. 

In the gladsome years of life's fair morn, , 

So long ago, when I was but a little child, j 

There were no clouds athwart the azure arch j 

That drooped above the sunny days, and filled 1 

The silver nights with waves of limpid light ; j 

j 

Or, if there were, I saw them not, by reason of j 

The golden shine that flooded all the happy days '\ 

Wherein no shadow wove its bordering of dusky hues. ] 

And I was satisfied ; and thought for ixje and aye j 

The sky would be one cloudless canopy of sapphire j 

light, j 

And — I did not know what shadows were ! i 

The gladsome years went hurrying by j 

With the noiseless flight of phantom feet ; | 

And a tremulous fleck, like a dusky plume, i 

Flickered, a moment, across the day, 1 

And then was lost within a flood of gold. : 

And the sunny heart, that ne'er had found i 

One single shadow bordering its sky, j 

Grew tremulous with nameless fear, ] 

And sought to find the meaning of the transitory gloom \ 

That cast its dusky shadow athwart the royal day. \ 

And the startled eyes were lifted to the overhanging ; 

skies, 
As if the weird solution were hidden in their blue. • 

And lo ! a tiny cloud — no bigger than a baby's palm — \ 

Hung, like a bit of dusky down, atremble in the air 
That swept along the fair horizon's golden rim. j 

And from the cloudlet's garnered gloom 

A mystic something fell, and furled its sombreness within ; 

my heart ; i 

4 



42 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

And — it seemed the world was at an end. — Ah me ! 
And that was ages long ago, it seems, 
And I have learned, too sadly, since that time, 
What clouds and shadows really are ! 

And I lost the childish wistfulness 

That wished the sun might shine for aye and aye ; 

For, along the sad years' noiseless flight, 

There came a time when I was grateful for the dusky 

eves; 
For the sunlight hurt me like a knife ; 
And my eyes were dry, and burning in the hot glare of 

the day ; 
And I was glad for every night that fell, 
Like Elam's grateful shade, across the weary years. 

And thus I learned that constant sunshine is not well ; 
And I have learned to bless the frequent clouds. 
From filmy fleck, with curling edge, like fringe of gold 
Turned toward the setting sun, to sombrest cloud 
That shuts out all the golden light of day. 

And if I could, I would not have my sky 

One cloudless arch of sapphire ; 

For cloudless sunsets are not half so beautiful and grand 

As those whose funeral fires are lit 

By brands from burning wrecks of clouds. 

And so the shadows of the noon — the clouds that swept 

life's zenith sky — 
I pray may hover toward its slanting west 
With just enough of sombreness to make 
Life's Sunset one of grandeur and sublimity, 
And beautiful as grand ! 
1883. 



THE SORROWFUL, GREAT GIFT. 43 



THE SOEROWFUL, GREAT GIFT. 

O, sorrowful, great gift conferred on poets, 

Of a twofold life, when one life has been found enough for pain I 

Aicro7^a Leigh. 

O, GREAT, great gift, and sorrowful indeed ! 

O, mystic symbol of a mystic creed ! 

O, passionate joy and desolate pain, 

Forged in the links of the self-same chain ! 

" O, sorrowful, great gift," so great, God's lovo, 

Drifting down from the Courts above. 

Must greaten the heart to hold its light, 

Must strengthen the heart to bear its blight. 

We are only men, not* demi-gods ! 

And fight the fight 'gainst such fearful odds! 

We weave song-garlands and wreaths of prayer, 

And tie with a bit of blue-spun air. 

And the nations praise, and sing our songs; 

But we hear the cheers of--the mingled throngs, 

As the far-off music of far-off waves 

Astir in the depths of coralline caves : 

And we go away where the lights are dim, 

With a nameless pain and a wordless hymn 

Strangely commingling in our souls; 

And watch the stars, in their silver stoles, 

Gathering fagots aflame with light, 

As sentinel-fires on the hills of Night. 

And our restless spirits throb and burn, 

Athirst for a draught of bliss eterne ; 

And the thoughtless envy ! How blind! how blind! 

Eut Allah is great, and the Fates are kind ! 

Ah me! if you knew! 'Twere happier far 

To love a bird than a shining star ; 

And happier, too, to wait in the shade. 

Than to try the paths our feet have made! 

There are thorns up here, and thirst, and cold. 

And a world of pain, unguessed, untold ; 

And sorrowful hearts and aching feet. 

For all our songs are glad and sweet I 



44 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

But would we step from the palace walls 

Of these weird courts to the earth- wrought halls 

Of wealth, and fashion, and pomp, and pride, 

And drift with the crew on their silver tide? 

Ah me ! I think not ! Glory has naught 

To do with the dreams our hearts have wrought. 

We walk abroad in the sun's fair light, 

The world is ours by royal right. 

We climb the heights of the silver stars, 

And weave their gleams into shining bars. 

We go where the billows are blue and cold, 

And spin from their murmurs threads of gold. 

We gather the love and art of the world, 

And hold it close, like a banner furled. 

Against our hearts, to fetter the pain. 

The ache, the hurt, the tumult, and strain 

Of this strange life, twofold and unguessed. 

That swells and throbs in the poet's breast. 

Ah me! I'm wrong, mayhap; I scarcely know! 

I stand where the hills are all aglow; 

But the vale below seems fair and sweet. 

And the grass would cool my fevered feet. 

We could not choose. Were the gift not ours 

We'd be content to gather flow'rs 

In the vale below. We could not choose ! 

O, sorrowful, great gift ! O, sad-eyed Muse ! 

O, fair-browed Erato, could we know 

How great your gift would be, how full of woe! 

O, sorrowful, great gift ! we hold it fast ; 

And when we've sung and wept our last. 

We'll fold our palms at rest, at rest ! 

Our great heart-secret still unguessed! 



WOEK. 

Ah ! Panacea for life's pain ! 

Ah ! Blessing in uncomely guise ! 
How many weary years we toil 

Before we grow content and wise ! 



SAF NOTHING BUT GOOD OF THE DEAD. 45 

We fret beneath the grievous load, 
Grow sick at heart, as day by day 

We count the hours of ceaseless toil 
That wait us down the weary way ; 

We fain would rest within the shade ; 
Fain leave some heavy task undone. 

Our aching feet are, ah ! so sore ! 

Our hands are tanned by wind and sun! 

And, oh ! we long for one free horn- 
To call our very own ! 

To work or play, as suits our will, 
Or leave it all alone ! 

And yet, for every carking ill 

Work brings the quickest, surest balm ; 
And stormiest griefs are fettered down 

Beneath its stern, prophetic calm. 
And hands that work, and hearts that wait, 

Are happiest after all, they say ; 
And wealth brings cares we wot not of. 

And tired hearts beat 'neath garments gay. 
Then let us murmur not, but learn 

God's holy fiat to obey ; 
The truest hearts are those that work 

According to their strength and day. 
Life's Panacea for all woes. 

True Blessing in uncomely guise ; 
Work with patient heart and hands. 

And we shall grow content and wise ! 



SAY NOTHING BUT GOOD OF THE DEAD. 

Sat nothing but good of the dead ! 
They have passed through the portals dread ; 
And are lying, so pallid and stark. 
In the charnel-house, loathsome and dark, 
With the arms of pitiless Decay 
Entwining the once lovely clay, 
4^ 



46 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

And feasting his ghoulish clan with gore, 

And gloating with fiendish pleasure o'er 

His mighty power to blast and blight 

The fairest creatures of life and light. 

Smite not the lips so clammy and pale, 

By dragging to light some olden tale 

Of youthful folly or hidden shame, 

And heap reproach on the dead one's name. 

It might have been false ; but if it was true. 

The kindest thing for the living to do 

Would be to bury, forever and aye, 

All mem'ry of it with the coffined clay; 

And if it were false, the dead lips are mute 

And powerless now the tale to refute. 

]S"one but a coward would stab in the dark, 

Or smite a dead foe, all pallid and stark. 

And what if those lips, while living, had let 

Some bitter word fall thou canst not forget ; 

Perhaps 'twas regretted as soon as 'twas said ; 

At least, you'll forgive them, now they are dead. 

Say nothing but good of the dreamless dead ; 

Their feet have gone down in the waters dread. 

Whatever of sorrow, or sin, or shame 

That could blot the scroll of the dead one's fame, 

Oh ! bury it all, forever and aye. 

Where the clods press coldon the coffined clay ! 



AMID THE COEN. \ 



I STOOD, last eve, 'mid the whispering corn. 

While the soft wind-voices rose and fell ; 
And the starlight hush of the night new-born 

Enwrapped my heart with its witching spell. 
And the toilsome day, and its gairish light. 

Like a troubled thought went softly by. 
And left me alone with the tender night, 

The whispering corn and the wind's soft sigh. 



/ CAN WAIT. 47 

And I knelt in the dusk of the tasselled grain, 

With never a thought of passing time, — 
With only the sound of an old refrain 

Filling my heart with its broken rhyme, — 
With only a dream that was born of a dream 

And died with the death of the fair, sweet thing, 
And left but the glint of a golden gleam 

Like the vanishing flash of an angel's wing. 

And the whispering corn- tops, softly swayed 

Back and forth in voluptuous ease ; 
And a hundred viewless fingers played 

Sweet madrigals upon the breeze. 
And I knelt me there, in the tasselled grain, 

With never a thought of passing time, — 
With only the sound of an old refrain 

Filling my heart with its broken rhyme. 



I CAN WAIT. 



Yes, 3'es, I know the way is long, 
And I not over-brave and strong ; 
But patient toil will bring its meed, 
And Faith and Hope my footsteps lead. 
I can wait. 

No labor can be all in vain ; 
It must win some reward or gain ; 
For labor conquers everything ; 
And Duty will its own fruits bring. 
I can wait. 

And far adown the coming years 
I see, amid their hopes and fears, 
A glittering temple rising high, 
Where I shall enter by and by. 
I can wait. 



48 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

And for these lonely hours I see 
" Home and Peace" and rest for me : 
Beautiful years, drift slowly by ! 
The recompense will come by and by. 
I can wait. 

Somewhere upon Life's shoreless sen 
A fair, sweet island blooms for me ; 
Odorous breezes o'er it blow, 
And I shall find it yet, I know. 
I can wait. 

The seeds I'm planting yet shall bloom, 
If not in life, then o'er my tomb ; 
And my reward come by and by. 
Beyond the vale, beyond the sky. 
I can wait. 

Yes, yes, I know the way is long, 
And I not over-brave and strong ; 
But patient toil will bring its meed. 
And Faith and Hope my footsteps lead. 
I can wait. 
October, 1872. 



DEEAMS. 



Dreams, dreams, such rebellious dreams I 

Harassing slumber's lawful reign 

With over-vexing cares and thoughts ostracized 

By the stern and unrelenting hand of day, 

But, like despairing exiles languishing 'mid alien scenes. 

And longing, with unutterable desire, to drink once more 

From fountains sparkling in their Father-Land, 

To tread, once more, the old, beloved haunts of home^ 

And clasp, in love's embracing, the loved and loving 

ones of yore. 
Dare all the danger of return — the fatal sentence and 

the exile's doom — 



DREAMS. 49 ; 

Only to see, once more, their Father-Land, ; 

And all it holds of life and life's dear loveliness for : 

them, — 

Undismayed by shadow-hands, escape the bleakness of i 

Siberian realms, j 

And seek, amid the ambushed perils of their dear old j 

home, j 
The exile's danger-freighted joy ! . | 

Dreams, dreams, such idle dreams ! i 

Marring the sweetness of the night's design, ; 

And wasting the strength of the feverish hours ; 

With a miserable travesty upon rest, \ 

So that the tired eyes greet the morning light 

With gladness that the weary night is gone, ; 

And with it all the vain and idle dreams 

That cheated it of restfulness and j^eace. 

Such idle dreams ! — Such senseless phantasies ! 

I marvel that a heaven-endowered mind \ 

Should, e'en in slumber, give them emptiness of space ! 

\ 

Dreams, dreams, such pleasure-freighted dreams ! \ 

Similitudes of real things that make life beautiful and j 

fair,— I 

The touch of loving hands upon our tired brow, ' 
The tenderness of clasping arms. 

And the warmth of loving lips upon our own, — \ 

How real ? We even catch the soft, caressing tone, \ 

And feel the fluttering breath upon our cheek ! 1 

And we awake the gladder for the transient joy, | 

And walk with happier footsteps through the day! j 

Dreams, dreams, such pitiful dreams ! j 

When the slumbering eyelids droop with tears. 

And the slumbering lips are pale with pain, ■ 

And the pitiful palms are raised aloft 

In mute appeal for comfort or for aid ! 

Oh ! 'tis sad that hearts should find, in sleep, ' . 

The sorrows that o'ercloud the wakeful day! , 

And that dreams should drop from their unechoing wings j 

Such shadow-thoughts to dim the fair day's light I i 



50 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 1 

Dreams, dreams, oh ! rebellious dreams ! ■ 

Oh ! idle dreams of vain and idle things ! . 

Oh! beautiful dreams ! Oh! sweet sad dreams I 

That make life's waking hours more fair and dear! j 

Oh! pitiful dreams, that cloud the sunshine of full | 

many a day ! 
Whence come ye, and from what weird land 
Dost gather such phantasma of design? 
Whence come ye, dreams we cannot pick nor choose, — 
Whence come ye ? Echo answers, Whence ! I 



PATIENCE. 



Patience, patience, ah ! wandering feet ! 

Ye'U soon walk through where the blooms are sweet 

The path grows brighter adown the way, 

And rose-tints herald the dawn of day. 

Patience, patience, ah ! labor-stained hands ! 
Carefully gather life's golden strands ; 
Smooth out the tangles and brighten the gloss, 
And weave golden bars life's warp across ! 

Patience, patience, ah ! dear eyes that weep ! 
There's rest at last, and a dreamless sleep ; 
And a soft hand waits to dry thy tears. 
And a sweet voice yearns to soothe thy fears. 

Patience, patience, ah ! quivering lip ! 
The draught may prove but a little sip, 
And the dew of Faith may sweeten the rest 
Ere the cup again to the lips is pressed. 

Patience, patience, ah ! sorrowful heart ! 
The murkiest cloud must drift apart. 
And let the radiant sunshine through, 
With here and there a glint of blue. 



LAURELS. 51 

Patience, patience, ah ! questioning soul ! 
Yield thy all to the Father's control; 
Trust His love, and His promises sweet. 
To give thee gifts that are pure and meet. 



LAUEELS. 



Laurels, my darling? take them away! 

What do I care for Laurels now ? 
They cannot banish this dreary pain, 

Nor soothe this weary, throbbing brow. 
The time is past when their shining leaves 

Would crown a proud and acheless head 
With happy dreams and grateful thoughts 

Unmarred by aught of pain or dread. 

The time is past; I only craved 

The shimmer of their fadeless green 
To crown the glory of a dream 

I covered with unrivalled sheen, 
And folded in my heart of hearts, 

A deathless faith, — a wordless vow ; 
But the dream is o'er, the brightness gone !- 

What do I care for Laurels now ? 

What do I care for Laurels now ? 

I beg you'll take them far away ! 
They hurt me with their emerald light. 

They chill me with their clinging spray. 
I am not thankless, dear, nor cold ; 

Only too tired and sad, to-night. 
To talk of Fame and Laurel-leaves, 

Of happy songs and golden light. 

Yes, take them away, my darling. 

Nor count me thankless, rude, nor cold,— 

There are stings amid the fair green leaves 
That only my eyes can behold. 



52 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Yes; take them away, my darling; 

I'l] hold to my faith and my vow ; 
And Fame's but a heartless deceiver, 

And Laurels are naught to me now. 



SOME DAY.' 



" Some day" the dreariest road will turn, 

And wind through landscapes fair and green, 

By sparkling waters fringed with fern. 

And gardens bright with fragrant sheen, — 
" Some day," you say ; " Some day !" 

'' Some day," you say, the weariest feet 
Will pause, and loose their sandal ties. 

And rest where shadows, cool and sweet, 

Shut out the burning noontide skies, — 

" Some day," you say ; " Some daj^ !" 

"Some day" the busiest hands will let 
Their stint of work slip fi-om their hold 

Unfinished ; and the stain and fret 
Of labor, from their waxen mould 
Fade out, you say, " Some day." 

" Some day," you say, the saddest heart 
Will find nepenthe for each woe, — 

Some golden promise set apart 

To recompense Hope's overthrow, — 
" Some day," you say ; " Some day !" 

" Some day" the emjDtiest life, you say, 

Will blossom into odorous sheen. 
And golden fruitage crown the day 

With hopes fulfilled and joys serene. 
"Some day," you say; "Some day!" 



''THE DAYS KEEP COMING.' ' 53 J 

" Some day" — ah ! well, I'm glad 'tis so ! 1 

Else heart and hand would fail, " Some day !" ] 

Life holds so much of pain and woe, ' 

Ere yet we find the fair glad way ; 
That blooms for all — " Some day." 

" Some day" — ah ! yes ; I trust the hand j 

That in its hollow holds life's sea ! | 

And what I do not understand j 

Of life, and life's long mystery, 1 

Shall be revealed — " Some day I" 

1886. 



"THE DAYS KEEP COMmG." } 

" The days keep coming," — faint, but fleet, ] 
I hear the falling of their feet. 

And their soft, low voices' undertone, 

Like the rhythmic rune of an olden rhj^me, ^ 

Or the clear, sweet peal of an evening chime j 

Drifting down from a belfry lone. • 

" The days keep coming," — soft, sad eyes, 1 

A wistful look in your brown depths lies, ] 

Foretoken sad of coming pain; 

What will the days that are coming bring ? j 

Largess of Hope's glad welcoming, j 

Or pathos of dreams and wishes vain ? j 

" The days keep coming," — dear brown eyes ! 
Softly the light of the changing skies 

Broadens and deepens, then fades away, 
Over the valleys of golden mist, { 

Over the mountains by sunlight kissed. 

Over the Occident Ocean's spray. j 

" The days keep coming," — like a dream, ■, 

Or music flow of hidden stream. 

Or soft, sweet hush of voiceless prayer : 

5 1 



54 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

To the glad, young hearts that only know 
The mystic charm of their ebb and flow, 
The mystic lure of their radiance rare. 

" The days keep coming," — sad and slow 
To us whose lives are touched with woe, 
To us whose hearts are sick with pain, 
To us whose days will never bring 
Largess of Hope's glad welcoming,- 



Only — the pathos of wishes vain ! , 

" The days keep coming," — sweet, sad eyes. 

What do you see in the changing skies ? i 

Prophecy fair of golden years, 1 

Free from the passion of pain and blight, \ 

Or only the gloom of a starless night, ; 

And the voiceless prayer of unshed tears ? j 

** The days keep coming," — swift, or slow, ' 

Brightened with hope, or dimmed with woe, i 

Or, strangely blending the two in one ! i 

" The days keep coming," — but, dear, sad ej'es, i 

One shall dawn from heavenlier skies j 

When the work of all these daj^s is done ! j 



GOD BLESS YOU! 

Of all sweet words of pen or tongue. 
When the heart is sad, and the spirit wrung 
With the jar and fret of the weary way 
The poor, tired feet must tread e^ach day. 
The sweetest are these, — God bless you ! 

They never grow old, nor worn, nor stale. 
Though the heart beats low and cheeks grow pale, 
And fond eyes turn with a mist-veiled gaze 
While the death-king counts his gathered bays ; 
But the white lips pray, God bless you ! 



OOD BLESS YOU! 55 

A mother kneels where her darling lies 1 

With the light shut in, in the starry eyes; 1 

She fondles the rings of silken hair, j 

And drops a kiss in the meshes fair, ] 

While she murmurs low, " Grod bless you !" ; 

Another stands with her faded brow, i 

Scarce reaching the lips that are bearded now ; '. 

She smoothes his hair with her finger-tips ; ^ 
He stoops and kisses her trembling lips. 
And she kisses back, — Grod bless you ! 

A sister's eyes grow dim with tears 

As she counts the length of the weary years^; , ' 

Ah ! the parting hour must come at last, 

And the full heart aches, and the tears flow fast, j 

But the prayer fails not, — Grod bless you ! | 

And friends that are fond, and friends that are true, ' 

Often append to their tender adieu ' 

This mystical triune, this sweetest device ; 

This gem of all gems, this pearl of great price, — ■ 

The heart's " confession of faith," — &od bless you ! i 

Some whisper it low in their heart of hearts, ''■ 

As the hands unclasp, and the friend departs ' 

With a smiling lip, perhaps with a jest ; : 

But a hand is pressed to an aching breast, ; 

And a heart beats fast, — God bless you ! ; 

Sometimes they leap, like a gleam of light, \ 

From the written folds of a message white ; j 

And we read it o'er with reverent eyes ! 

Because it holds this sweetest prize, i 

This tenderest prayer, — Grod bless you ! I 

And so, methinks, of all sweet prayers. 

That comfort the heart and soothe its cares, ; 

That lessen the pain of the parting hour, 

And strengthen our faith with their subtile power. 

The sweetest is this, — God bless you ! ] 



56 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 



THE SHADOW BETWEEN. 

The opaline glow of Autumn days, 

The opaline splendor of Autumn skies, 
Enwraps the earth in a golden haze, 

And a rich, rare vesture of brilliant dyes. 
And the shining hours come drifting down, 

Like golden leaves from a wind-tossed bough ; 
And the West-lights weld a glorious crown 

To cover the Sweet Year's paling brow. 
But all the glorious wealth of light. 

The glorious wealth of radiant sheen. 
Floats in a realm of farther height, 

And a dreary Shadow lies between ! 

The wealth of opaline splendor lies 

Athwart the valleys fair and boon ; 
I watch the shifting Autumn dyes 

With wistful eyes that tire too soon. 
And once I deemed it all so fair ! 

'Twas e'er a picture sweet and new ! 
My soul drank, in its beauty rare, 

A nectared cup of honey-dew ! 
But now the radiant Autumn days 

Weave all in vain their glorious sheen ; 
Their beauty charms not heart nor gaze ; 

For, alas! a Shadow lies between ! 

Ah me ! that human hearts should grow 

Too sad to thrill 'neath Beaut^^'s spell! 
Ah me ! that eyes should cease to glow 

'Neath Music's soft, voluptuous swell ! 
Ah me! for all Hope's golden gleams 

That turned to ashes cold and gray ! 
Ah me ! for all the broken dreams 

That lie along life's trodden way ! 
The opaline skies are full of light; 

The passionate days with radiant sheen; . 
But the glory falls from a farther height, 

Ah me! and a Shadow lies between! 



"/r IS BETTER FARTHER ON.'' 57 



'IT IS BETTEE FARTHEK ON." 

Fold your hands, my weary darling, 

I am tired as tired can be, 
And we'll rest a little moment 

In the shadow of this tree. 
The way has been full weary, 

And our strength is well-nigh gone ; 
But a tender voice is calling, 

" It is better farther on !" 

Eest your head, my weary darling, 

On my breast, and I will wait 
Till your pulses beat less wildly, 

And the fever-lights abate. 
Ere we take once more our burdens. 

And our helmets once more don, 
With the sweet and blest assurance, 

" It is better farther on." 

Shut your eyes, my weary darling, 

/shall rest in watching you ; 
And will wake you ere the shadows 

Shall have caught a deeper hue. 
And your rest shall bear a solace 

For the sorrows undergone. 
And your dreams shall seal the legend, 

" It is better farther on." 

Slumber peacefully, my darling, 

" It is better farther on ;" 
And an aftermath of sweetness 

Shall unfold for us anon. 
When the sun has hung his banners 

Fringed with gold the hills upon, 
We will go our way less weary, 

" It is better farther on !" 
6* 



58 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Oh, rare, sweet words of comfort ! 

Oh, heart, be leal and strong I 
The wa}^ may be half wended, 

At most 'tis not so long ; 
And ever a thought comes softly. 

When hope and strength are gone, 
The weariest day has an ending, — 

"7if is better farther onV 
1879. 



APTEE A WHILE. ] 

Wait, little Annie ; after a while , 

The snow and sleet will melt away ; j 

The flowers will wake in the mossy dell ; 

And lift their eyes to the golden day; ; 

The Eobin will sing his vesper hymn ; 

In the rich, warm twilight, soft and dim ; i 

The Swallows will come from over the sea, j 

Bringing a message sweet for thee. \ 

Look, my darling, the blue skies smile, \ 

The snow will vanish after a while. \ 

■ \ 

Out where the stately cedars turn ^ j 

Their emerald branches to the sun, j 

I heard this morn a fitful song, j 

The sweet notes hushed ere quite begun, 

And caught a glimpse of restless blue 

Glancing the emerald branches through ; 

And I thought, ah ! well, the Winter's cold, 

But the sunshine hints of warmer gold ; 

And alien fields no brighter smile 

Than ours will, darling, after a while I 

Wait, little Annie ; after a while 
Life's weary turmoils all shall cease, 
And we shall lave our burning feet 
In waters of eternal peace; 



A CENTENNIAL POEM. 59 

For Heaven is not so far away : 

'Tis growing nearer day by day ; 

We hear the death-waves sullen roar, 

But ah ! they touch the golden shore ; 

And beyond the waves God's green fields smile, 

We'll reach them, darling, after a while ! 

Then wait, little Annie ; God knows best. 

As sure as Spring-time follows snow, 

So surely life will find some bliss 

To mitigate its pain and woe. 

And Heaven is not so far away : 

'Tis growing nearer day by day ; 

Life's storms will soon be over-past. 

And we shall be at rest, at last. 

Look, my darling, the blue skies smile, — 

The snow will vanish after a while! 



A CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Through the corridors wide of an hundred years. 

Ah ! go with us, friends, dear friends of to-day, 
To the shadow of pain, and the valley of tears, 

Where the holiest Hope of our Nation lay, 
Like an unfledged eaglet, all nestless and weak, 

On the storm-wet ground of a wilderness-land, 
Where the hills were all bare and the winds were all 
bleak. 

And storms wildly beat on the desolate strand. 

We'll kneel us there, friends, with all reverence meet, — 

'Tis the holiest shrine of our hundred years! 
Ah ! can we forget, while the days are so sweet. 

That desolate birth, and the baptismal tears 
That hallowed the spot where the poor weakling lay, 

All wailing and nude, on the storm-beaten sod, 
All blinded and chilled by the cruel-eyed day, 

And christened it Freedom^ — best largess of God ? 



60 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

But rocked in the cradle of danger and care, \ 

And sheltered by prayers, and nourished by tears, \ 

The poor little weakling grew winsome and fair, \ 

As grow the children of happier years ; I 

Till a giant stood on the wave-fretted shore i 

All clad in the armor of Eight and of Might ; \ 

And the hill-slopes were sterile and dreary no more, ] 

And the plains were all covered with billows of | 

light. j 

Step lightly, dear friends, we are lingering now 

Where the shadow of Sheol swept over the day, ! 

And pale lips were sealed by the patriot's vow, ; 

And heart-strings were broken while striving to j 

pray. J 

Peace, peace to their spirits, — full many a year j 

The winds have been weaving their requiem sweet ; ■ 

Long, long has their fame been to memory dear, 

And to-day the measure is full and complete 1 \ 

Ah ! they were the genii that girdled our land, ! 

Deep, deep as the sea and as high as the sky, \ 

With Liberty's ramparts, so stanch and so grand, i 

Tyranny's Terror and Justice' Ally. j 

Bow we our heads as we're passing them by, ; 

Noblest of heroes, devoted and true, — ; 

To-day we discern how holy and high j 

Were the Faith and the Hope that guided them '\ 

through. j 

Guarded by Freedom, and Concord, and Light, I 

The beautiful years went whispering by, — j 
What were privation, and labor, and blight 

To a Nation thus born to a future so high ! 
But, the blood-darkoned years were hoarded away 

As treasures of pain, too sweet to be lost ; \ 
For the sorrowing hearts knew how well to obey, 

And never forgot what our Freedom had cost. ■ 

Ah ! the happy years ! — Ah ! the beautiful years ! 

How lovely, and noble, the young Nation grew ; i 



I 

A CENTENNIAL POEM. 61 I 

For bravest of hearts were the charioteers j 

That handled the reins with a touch skilled and true. : 

And Peace and Plenitude covered the land. i 
The glad hills re-echoed, "Jehovah is great!" 

And Might crowned Eight with her own gracious hand, 

And Wrong drank the lees of his own futile hate. • 

And Knowledge uplifted her strong white hand | 

With a gesture of love toward th^ setting sun, j 

And smiled as she whispered, " Sweet and bland | 

Is the evening rest when your work is done." i 

And the fair young Nation blushed 'neath her smile, • 

And toiled with redoubled devotion and care, j 

Till stately and fair, for full many a mile, , 

Her temples gleamed out in the sunlighted air. :; 

Eeligion walked down through the streets and the ' ■ 

lanes j 

With unspotted garments and ecboless feet, ' 
Healing the sorrows and cleansing the stains. 

And filling the air with her melody sweet. 

And the Nation gave heed to the low-uttered call; i 

And out from the beautiful teeming land, 

Willing to venture their lives and their all, ! 

Truest hearts followed the sacred command. 1 

Charity stood, with her rose-tinted lips : 

Quivering softly with pitiful pain ; 
Stooping to touch with her own finger-tips 

Brows that were darkened with many a stain. 
And the Nation uplifted her strong, right arm. 

And bade her " God speed" in her " labor of love," ; 

And many a wreck of the crime-gendered storm i 

Eests safely, to-day, in the haven above. ; 

And Honor stood forth, with her soul in her eyes, ; 

Jealously guiding the young Nation's feet, | 

Lest she dishonor or tarnish the prize | 

Our fathers had left as an heritage sweet. i 
But, friends, we are lingering here too long : 

The sun swings away toward the western sky j 



62 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Let us away, with the gathering throng, 1 

Where the corridor walls rise darkling and high. j 

Oh! lohat does this mean ? Oh! beautiful years ! 

Where did ye gather such terrible pain ? 
The nights are all wet with such sorrowful tears, j 

The days are all foul with such horrible stain ! ' 

Blood, blood, — all your garments are reeking and red, 

Your lips are all pallid with pain and despair ! i 

Oh ! where are the flowers that blossomed, and shed I 

Their scented delights on the quivering air ? i 

Hush, hush, sweet friends, let us hurry away, — 1 

Let us cover these years with fragrance, and bloom ; 

We'll bury all passion and sorrow to-day ] 

In the garlanded crypt of the Century's tomb, — , 

Sorrow and sadness are not for to-day ; ! 

This, of all years, should be happy and blest ; 'i 

" Forgive and forget" is the happier way, i 

Leaving the Father to care for the rest. '; 

We are back again at the entrance-gate ; 

Our hearts wandered down through the buried '' 
years 
Gathering the dreams of the good and the great 

To garland the gloom of their pain and their tears. ; 

We'll kneel us again, once again, sweet friends, ; 

Just here, on the verge of the Century new, i 

While the Century old to the grave descends, i 

Its story completed, — its ministry through, — | 

And the Grod of the Nations list to our prayer. 

The God of the Nations vouchsafe us His aid, 
That the Century new be spotless and fair 

From all that can tarnish, or mar, or degrade ; 
That we, as a Nation, may keep our souls ■ 

Spotless and free from the sloughs and the slimes, — '- 
The baleful tide of corruption that rolls 

An avalanche-storm of horrible crimes. ' 

i 



THE SILENCE OF THE SNOW. 63 

Father, we beg thine omnipotent hand 

Safely ns guide through the Century new ; 
And over the breadth of our beautiful land 

The flowers of Freedom shall blossom anew, 
And Knowledge and Truth to giants shall grow. 

Peace and Content where corruption has trod. 
We'll stand by our Country through weal and through 
woe, — 

By our Nation, and by — Our Nation's God ! 
July 4, 1876. 



THE SILENCE OF THE SNOW. 



'Tis midnight ! The old mantel clock, j 

With slow, unquivering stroke, marks off < 

With silver echoes the weird, mysterious hour. | 

Within, the quaint old rooms are full, ] 

From floor to dusky ceiling, with the plenitude , 

Of silence, — silence, and the strange, mysterious j 

Phantasy called Sleep, — Sweet Sleep ! ' 

The world's brief euthanasia of paiu ! ; 

Without, the calm-eyed Yestal, Night, tells her beads j 

On the silver rosary of the stars ; j 

And the Moon, like some pale-vestured saint, | 

Whose shriven soul seeks heavenlier scenes, i 

Keeps on her solitary way. \ 

And, beneath the still white radiance, ; 
The earth, like some great, beating heart, 
Lies slumbering, — shut down to sweeter stillness 
By the silence of the snow, — the soft, white snow, 

That, with a waveless stretch of crystal light, ' ' 

Blots out the dreariness of naked fields : 

And winter-fettered brooks and rills, ■ 

And folds its spotless purity about the poor, complain- i 

ing trees. I 

The silence of the snow, — the moonlight hush i 

Of outer elements of sense and sound \ 



64 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Drifts through my chamber lattice, and charms 
My restless wakefulness to thoughts of happier things. 
And my wearj^ heart is glad for the utter silence 
And the holy calm of this sweet hour, — 
For, I hold (and the quaint conceit is laden 
With the pathos of a human love and faith) 
That the silence of the snow is still 
The fittest emblem of the fair, sweet peace 
That broods above the golden streets, 
And gilds, with fairer radiance, 

The golden-gleaming steps of the G-reat White Throne ! 
1879. 



EYEN-TIDB. 



The glory of the " Sunset Hills" creeps up the shining 

battlements of day, 
And furls its golden banners on the watch-towers of 

the night; 
The nightly roll-call sounds athwart the sky. 
And, one by one, the punctual stars flash out the answer, 

" Here am I." 

The dusky pines grow duskier with the growing dusk, 
And viewless fingers steal athwart their whispering 

boughs, 
And turn them into soft ^olian harps, 
That mingle with their own sweet cadences, 
A music of far-distant spheres and undulating seas. 

The winding paths, that lay athwart the white breast 

of the day. 
Lapse into silent sameness with the wide stretch of the 

fields ; 
The white lights of the far-off town shine through the 

vista 
Of dim distances, like stars of fitful radiance. 
Or light-house lamps that flash from rock-imperilled 

coasts 
And danger-haunted inlets of the sea. 



EVEN-TIDE. - 65 ' 

And human voices — some with glad, triumphant clarion 

calls, i 

And others dropped to minor cadences, that hold a hint ■ 

of hidden pain — I 

Leap outward from the gathering ditsk, and mingle ! 

With the hour's weird symphony of tender-throated 
chimes. 

And homeward footsteps fill the evening aisles 
With restless echoes, that have much to tell j 

Of fireside happiness or ruthlessness of woe ; j 

And children's faces press against the window-pane, ^ 

With peering eagerness that fain would pierce ■ 

The deepening duskiness of outer things, , 

To catch the first glad smile of home-returning lips. 
And women's eyes, with soft, expectant joy, grow 

bright, ' 

As, far away, the echoes faint of coming footsteps 
Thrill athwart their listening hearts. ' 

All this comes back from the days of the past, i 

The Memory-land of the "Long Ago," \ 

When the " Sunset Hills" were xay temples of prayer, 
And the singing winds were my harpers of praise, ; 

And the Even-tide was a lingering pause 
In the busy routine of the day. 

But the lapsing years have made me forget ^ 
To notice the charms of the Even-tide, 

And I make no note ; I only hear them say, i 

" The sun is set !" And darkness deepens in the room ; j 

And I light the lamps, and go on with the work '] 

With automatic diligence and care ; ^ j 

And presently I hear, above the fireside hum i 

Of speech and laughter, the harping of the winds ; • 

But their soft ^olian symphonies are changed j 

To coronachs and threnodies of pain ; ] 

I know it without listening. But what shall matter it ? ! 
The days and nights are all the same ! 

'Tis growing dusky in my room ; I think 
The Even-tide must be at hand. I cannot see ! 



eQ ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

I clasp ray hands, and close my eyes submissively; 

And presently it all comes back again, — 

The Even-tides that seemed like lingering pauses 

Dropped in the busy routine of the days ; 

The golden tabernacles of the " Sunset Hills," 

The soft jEolian harpings of the winds, 

That mingled with their own sweet minstrelsy, 

A music of far-distant spheres and undulating seas. 

And hearkening, I lean to catch 

The nightl}^ roll-call of the stars ; 

And for one little space of wistful time 

I linger in the mist-land of the past ; 

And then arise and light the household lamps. 

And do the work that cometh next to hand, 

With the same unspoken thought and passionless 

protest. 
It does not matter now ; I shall not mind ! 
And some sweet day an Even-tide shall come, 
And hold me in its shadowy embrace, 
And other hands will light the household lamps ! 
1879. 



QUmQUE DECADES. 

Five decades, like fair-plumaged birds 

Estray from far Utopian climes, 

Or fleet-stepped couriers from the Palace of the Years, 

Have come to us, and thrown their brightness 

And their shadow full athwart our way. 

Across the still, wide sea of shoreless waves 

The loving winds have brought us argosies of costliest 

things ; 
And many a ship, deep-laden with a freight of diiferent 

kind. 
Has come across the still, dark waves, and dropped 
Its heavy anchors in the harbor, where 
Our hapi)ier ships lay moored. 



qumquE decades. 67 < 

And with the silent flowing out — the wistful ebb-tide ; 
of the years — i 

We've sent full many a fair-built craft, 
And trusted it and all its precious freight 
To the mercy of the loving winds, and the tender care 
Of that dear One who holds the loving winds i 

Within the hollow of His hand. 

But some, we know, went down, — 
Down, down beneath the still, dark waves. 

Ere yet they scarce had left the shore, — the shore i 

Where we had stood and watched them with such ) 

loving eyes ; | 

And our hearts grew still with heaviest aching, ] 

And our eyes grew dim with heaviness of unshed tears. | 

And yet the Father knew 'twas better so ! ] 

But others sailed away, away, away, - ; 

Like phantom ships upon a phantom tide ; 1 

The loving winds blew out their shining sails, ] 
And sped them swiftly on their silent way. 

And we shall find them, some sweet day, fast anchored | 

In a harbor of unruffled calm ; j 

Their precious freight undimmed by rust of time, ' 
Or marred by wrath of elemental strife. 

Five decades! Year by year we've kept us on our 

way, \ 

In storm and shine, in stress of heat and cold. 1 

Life is not made of fairy dreams ; and we have wept 
Beside the bier of many a cherished hope, ' 

And kissed the lips of many a dead beloved, \ 

In fifty years agone ! 
But love and faith have touched our lives 
With vivifying warmth and light ; 
The sweetness of a common hope lies deep 
Within our hearts, — a " fountain of perpetual youth !" ' 

With the shade and sheen of fewer decades on my , 

head ; 

Than these white pages have recorded here, j 

This willing hand will never weave again : 



68 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

A birthday benedicite of quaint conceit, 

And wistful imagery of rhythmic thought ; 

For, ere five decades more shall pass, 

These hands will lay death-folded in the long, long rest ! 

But, perchance, in that far time some happy-hearted one 
Will find these quaint old lines, and read them o'er. 
With some sweet thought for her who wrote them 
In that time so far away, so far away. 
Five decades lonsj within the past ! 
1881. 



THE PEOPHEOY OF THE CLOUD. 

Above the Southern pine-tops a fleecy cloud hangs low, 
With curling edges turned to catch the Sunset's golden 

glow; 
It brings a hope of brighter hours, — a dream, a promise 

sweet, 
Of softer skies and warmer suns, our waiting eyes to 

greet. 

It first unfurled its snowy plumes where sunny Southern 

Seas 
Blush 'neath the warm caresses of the shy, coquettish 

breeze ; 
It paused a moment, then away, with noiseless wings, 

it sped 
To where our skies are cold and dark, with winter 

gloom o'erspread. 

It tells us of that golden clime where winter is 

unknown, 
Where Nature, with a lavish hand, broadcast has ever 

thrown 
A glorious wealth of royal bloom, a wealth of incense 

rare ; 
"Where chilling winds are never felt, and skies are 

always fair. 



THE PROPHECY OF THE CLOUD. 69 

It tells us warmer lights will gleam along our Sunset 

Shore, — 
They'll seem the fairer, too, for all the gloom that goes 

before, — 
That Winter cannot last for aye, that snow must melt 

some time 
Beneath the wandering winds that come from some 

more-favored clime. 

It tells us Spring has not forgot, — she's on her way e'en 

now, 
With roses in her dewy palms and garlands on her 

brow ; 
Her sandalled feet are wet with dew, her garments with 

perfume, 
And everywhere the glad earth wakes to joyousness 

and bloom. 

Dear Cloud, your mission is performed ; I trust your 

promise sweet. 
And soon, I know, the roses fair my yearning eyes shall 

greet ; 
I've waited oft, — I still can wait, — the days are dark and 

sad. 
But with the light of odorous bloom the earth will seem 

more glad. 

I oft shall think, with grateful heart, dear Cloud, of this 
sweet day 

When, just above the Southern pines, with folded wings 
you lay, 

While over my care-burdened heart your strange pro- 
phetic spell. 

Like the "benediction after prayer," in soothing sweet- 
ness fell. 



70 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 



MAY-SHINE. 



The May-shine fills the dreamy^ air j 

With golden lances, jewels rare, ^ 

That flash and glow with rippling light j 

O'er sunny vale and mountain height. 

And down upon the river. | 

The tall trees smile beneath her kiss ; i 

The fields seemed bathed in untold bliss ; ] 

The whole air seems athrob with joy, ■ 

Untrammelled, sweet, without alloy, — 

Pure efflux of joy's Giver! 

The violets lift their azure eyes. 

Enamoured of the tender skies, 

Then drop their heads with timid grace, j 

Too shy to meet the Sun's embrace, — | 

Half willing, yet receding. j 

The Ox-eye dots the fields of green j 

Like myriad stars of silver sheen ; 
With stately mien the Lilac stands, 
Eich purple clusters in her hands, ] 

For loving favor pleading. 

The prisoned sweets of later flowers 
Begin to scent the dewy bowers ; 
The Eoses lift their rich, red lips 
To catch the touch of finger-tips 

That, unseen, guard their beauty. 
The Lily-buds, like shallops bright, 
Unfurl their petals, starry white, [ 

Eevealing hearts whose golden glow ; 

Is richer for the circling snow ■ 

That thus does loving duty. 



And myriad others breathe their share 
Of incense on the pulsing air ; 



THE SWALLOW. 71 

And each its freight of beauty brings, 
Foretoken sweet of brighter things 

Than even earth's fair flowers. 
The forest-trees serenely stand 
Like monarcbs old, — a stately band ; 
Only the spicy pines sigh low, 
As the fitful breezes come and go, 

Or seek the fragrant bowers. 

Above, below, around, and through. 
The old, sweet songs, forever new. 
Are pulsing, leaping, thrilling high 
Toward the clear, far-reaching sky 

In strange, concordant blending. 
The birds, the birds, the happy birds ! 
I cannot guess the mystic words 
That flow in such melodious lays 
All through the long, long, precious days, 

Such rest and comfort lending. 

But, ah ! I know the dear May-shine 
Has crowned the world with love divine. 
And dropped its stillness in my breast' 
To soothe its vague and weird unrest 

To sweet, harmonious measures. 
And as I sit with busy hands 
Doing the work that nearest stands, 
I dream of skies, and clouds, and air, 
Of trees, and birds, and flowers rare. 

The May-shine's golden treasures. 



THE SWALLOW. 



O, BEAUTIFUL Bird of the glossy wing ! 
Thou comest back at the call of Spring, 
Or else thou bringest the Spring with thee, 
From o'er the waves of the sunny sea. 



72 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. i 

Whichever it is, I am glad, — so glad ; J 

For Winter was cold, and dark, and sad ; ! 

With never a glint of warmer light i 

To comfort the heart or cheer the sight. , 

I dreamed, last night, of the summer-time, 

When the hours drop off with a golden chime; i 

When breezes sleep 'mid the whispering leaves, 

And swallows chirp 'neath the moss-grown eaves; ' 

And while I slept, like a zephyr's sigh, , 

A beautiful pageant swept dreamily by, . 

And my dreaming ear caught the first glad note \ 

That burst from the Swallow's purple throat. 1 

I stirred in my sleep like a weary child, ; 

Then slept again till the Day-Star smiled, ! 

Like a pure, pale spirit robed in white, i 

On the shadowy hills of fading night; i 

Then, waking from my sleep profound, . 

My glad ears caught the welcome sound, 
And oh ! that dream was not a lie, — 
A purple wing dashed swiftly by ! 

And under the eaves — so still of late — 

A swallow called to his timid mate ; i 

And I knew the cold, dark days were past, 

And flower-crowned Spring had come at last ! i 

Oh, beautiful Bird of the glossy wing ! ' 

Oh, purple-throated and joyous thing! i 

Thou bringest the Spring, or the Spring brings thee, \ 

From some sweet country beyond the sea ! 

And I feel so glad, — so glad to know ■ 

That past are the days of frost and snow, ] 
And come are the days of flowery sheen, 

Of sapphirine skies and fields of green, ,' 

Of dew-christened vales and mist-crowned hills ; | 

Of fleet-pinioned birds and glancing rills. j 

Oh, beautiful Bird, thou hast brought the Spring, j 
Or the Spring brought thee 'neath her scented wing ! 
1874. 



POOR SALISBURY, OR WINOS OF FIRE. 73 



POOK SALISBURY, OR WINGS OF FIRE.* 

'Tis Sabbath-Day ! Mid-Autumn holds her court 
Amid the burnished splendor of the year, — 
Her bannered glories surge above the emerald Summer- 
time, 
Her minions clothe the forests with her livery of light, 
And carpet, for her treading, the fields, the glens, the 

far-off mountain-slopes. 
With rich, mosaicked opulence of tapestried design. 
And the people walk the streets, and laugh and talk 

within their homes. 
Unconscious that the evening glamour hides within its 

gloom 
A cruel, burning beak, and wings of fire 
Already plumed to make the fatal swoop 
Upon the beauty of the fair, glad town 
Of Salisbury ! 

The early church-bells throw their mellow notes 
Adown the whispering sunset aisles, 
Slow-calling to the house of prayer 
The people of the happy Town. 
And souls, responsive to the silvery call. 
Turn churchward through the gathering dusk. 
But, hark ! — A startled cry rings through the air! 
And what is that that gleams athwart the way ? 
Oh, Christ! 'Tis come! And on the sky seems writ 
This legend of despair, — 
Poor Salisbury ! 

Oh, Christ ! 'Tis come ! And from the fiery nest, 
Alurk within the evening's gathering gloom, 
Leaps forth, with burning beak and wings of fire. 



* Salisbury, Maryland, was devastated by a terrible conflagra- 
tion on the night of October 17, 1886. 

The fire broke out about half-past six o'clock, and raged 
furiously nearly all through the night. 



74 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

The ghastly demon bird, whose flaming eyes 
Gloat o'er the anguish of the terror-palsied Town. 
The fiery beak laughs out a devilish, demon laugh, 
As, with unerring aim, it sheathes itself 
Within the quivering heart of the doomed Town, — 
Poor Salisbury ! 

Oh, Christ I 'Tis come ! And water, water. 

Like a Tantalus streamlet, running at our very doors ! 

But the wings of fire sweep on, — the demon bird's hot 

breath 
Scorches the poor Town's blistered palms, and turns 

the tears 
Upon her pallid cheeks to drops of molten fire. 
And yet — oh, Christ ! — water, water at our very 

doors ! 
But, the wings of fire sweep on ! — Oh, Sisters, far away, 
Haste to the help of the flame-drenched Town ! — 
Poor Salisbury ! 

But the wings of fire sweep on, sweep on, sweep on! 
Oh, Christ! will the prayed- for help ne'er come? 
Oh! the moments are hours while the panting Town 
Lies with the beak of the demon bird sheathed in her 

quivering heart, 
And the flamo-plumed pinions smiting the pitiful lips 

with death, — 
With the pain and aff'right of a horrible death ! 
Poor Salisbury I 

Oh, the night ! The terrible, terrible night ! 
Fighting with death, — will the morn never come? 
Oh, the hiss of the demon bird's red beak. 
And the cruel glare of his pitiless eyes. 
And the merciless sweep of his flame-plumed wings ! 
Oh, the night! The terrible, terrible night! 
Fighting with death, — will the morn never come 
To poor Salisbury ? 

Oh, the night ! The terrible, terrible night ! 
But the stars are fading away. Are they fading ? 



POOR SALISBURY, OR WTNGS OF FIRE. 75 : 

Or is it only this flame-woven veil, — ! 

This ache in the heart, this pain in the fevered eyes, : 
That hides the sweet stars from our dazed and terror- 

wildered sight? i 

Thank God ! — The night is past, and morning breaks j 

O'er poor Salisbury ! I 

And the might of the demon bird is broke ! ] 

And his wings, those terrible wings of fire, : 

Lie broken, — plumeless, ashen-gray, and still ; i 

And the baleful light of his cruel eyes is quenched ; ; 

And his vampire beak lies crushed and blackened ; | 

A ghastly, grim, unsightly thing of evil . 

Amid the desolateness, the charred and ruined come- ; 

liness ! 

Of poor Salisbur}" ! ; 

Poor Salisbury ! But the terror-tortured heart i 

Stirs faintly in the nude and mutilated breast ; I 
The eyelids make a motion scarce perceptible ; 

The blackened lips, drawn shapeless with excess of pain, ' 

Move faintly with a pitiful attempt at speech ; [ 

And the blistered palms are lifted in a mute appeal ! : 

Ah ! the morning weeps for the woe that fell, : 

With the ghastly night, on the throbbing heart i 
Of poor Salisbury ! 

Alas ! that the beautiful Sabbath peace ^ ^ 

Should have rushed to such tumult of terror and pain I i 

Alas ! for the ruin of shrine and of home ! j 

For the loss and the hurt that must fall upon all, ] 

For the loss and the hurt each must bear alone, ] 

For the loss no fortune may ever make good, \ 

The hurt that no healing can ever make sound ! ', 

Alas ! and alas ! for the ruin and wreck, — ■ ! 

The pitiless disaster, — all the woe that fell, j 

With the ghastly night, on the throbbing heart j 

Of poor Salisbury ! . j 

October 17, 1886. j 



76 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 



"LET ME DEEAM AGAIK" 

"Let me dream again." I am happier in dreams; 

For the Slumber-Land pathways are gladsome and 
bright ; 
And the Slumber-Land breezes are scented and cool ; 

And the Slumber-Land gardens are full of delight. 
And the Slumber-Land homes. Ah! the Slumber- 
Land homes ! 

What rest-giving peacefulness hallows their shrine, 
Unmarred by the fret of the petty unfaith, 

The word misconstrued and the misjudged design ! 

And the Slumber-Land friends. Ah ! I lean on their 
breast 

In the quiet contentment that knows no distrust; 
And their kisses are warm as their friendship is true; 

For the touchstone of love is its measureless trust. 
And the Slumber-Land music is sweeter than trill 

Of skylark afloat in the sun-blinded blue ; 
Its flowers ne'er fade, for their beauty is fed 

By sunshine, and starshine, and balm-laden dew. 

Ah ! this Slumber-Land fair! Let me visit again 

Its gardens of sunshine, its valleys of dew ; 
Let me drink from the streams that are limpid and 
cool, 

And bide with the friends that always are true ; 
For the day and its burdens are heavy to bear ; 

I falter and fail in the unequal strife. 
And long for rest and the sunshine of peace 

To quiet the pulse of the fever called Life ! 

Let me dream again. I am happier in dreams ; 

They're real as much that we find in the day; 
And many a dream that is wrought in the air 

Is far more deceitful and fleeting than they. 



THE SONG OF THE RIPENING CORN. 77 

Let me dream again ! It is better to dream 

With eyes slumber-fettered and spirit unthrilled, 

Than to stand wide awake in the light of the day 
With the passion and pathos of dreams unfulfilled. 

1887. 



THE SONG OF THE EIPENING COEN. . 

The reign of the Eoses is ended ! 

The Summer has buried its glow . 

With the breath of its beautiful minions, ; 

And the pulse of the year beats low. . ; 
And the shadowy hill-tops darken 

The vales of the radiant morn, ■ 

But sweeter than mystical voices ] 

Is the song of the ripening corn! ' 

I cherished the roses that scented \ 

The lips of the sweet-hearted June ; 
I treasured the fleet-footed Summer, 

That gathered her jewels too soon. [ 
But now, for the odor of roses, 

The spice-breath of fruitage is born ; 

And sweeter than Summer-time music ; 

Is the song of the ripening corn ! 

It rings through the mellowing sunshine, ^ I 

It sobs through the pitiful rain ; | 

Sleeping or waking, I hear it, j 

In the rows of the whispering grain. i 

" 'Tis the wind," you say, and my 'fancy," | 

That weaves from the breath of the morn, j 

And the sigh of the evening, the rhythm 



Of the song of the ripening corn 



Perhaps ; for the mellowing sunshine. 
And the tints of the melloAving year, 

Are the nectar and wine of the Muses ; 
And the Wind is their charioteer. 



78 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

But still I shall hold to my " fancy," 
Though proven of ^olus born ; 

For sweeter than Summer-time music 
Is the song of the ripening corn ! 

1886. 



KISMET.' 



Once on a time, in the long, lone past, 

1 stood, in a dream, by the Sea ; 
Alone with the sough of the singing waves, 

The harping winds' weird symphony, 
And the luminous, lambent tide. 
I love the Sea, and I stood content 

In the nebulous molten glow. 
Watching the waves, with never a thought 

Of the treacherous undertow 
Of the luminous, lambent tide. 

And a beautiful flower of stateliest form, 

Holding aloft its petals of snow. 
Beckoned me nearer the whispering sea, 

Nearer the treacherous undertow 
Of the luminous, lambent tide. 
I lifted my hands to gather its bloom. 

And thought me, how gloriously fair! 
When over the beautiful petals of snow, 

Swifter than doom of despair, 

Swept the luminous, lambent tide! 

Once on a time, in the after-years, 

I stood in a forest rare and dim ; 
And a beautiful bird, with a golden throat. 

Sang in the shadows a wild, sweet hymn — 
An exquisite, wild, sweet hymn ! 
And I stood entranced, not daring to move. 

Lest the beautiful songster should flee, 
And the marvellous hymn be lost in the flight 

To some shadowy, far-away tree 
In the forest rare and dim. 



1 

^'KISMET.'' 79 j 

But e'en as I stood in the forest dim, 

Hearkening still the melody sweet, -i 

The sound of a rifle smote the air, ] 

And the songster fell at my feet — j 

Fell dead at my very feet ! ! 

The golden throat all dabbled with red, f 

Its melody hushed evermore ! I 

My bird of the forest, rare and dim, i 

All mangled and covered with gore, \ 

And dead at my very feet ! ] 

Once on a time, in the still later years, i 

I reached the odorous flower-fringed brink i 

Of an exquisite stream ; and faint with the heat i 

And wearisome way, I paused to drink \ 

Just once ere I turned to go. • 

To sit just once in the grateful shade, i 

With folded palms, for a little space, j 
And feel the breath of the musky winds 

Drift soft and cool across my face, ! 

As they wandered to and fro. • j 

And I turned to dip, with incurvate palms, '< 

A nectarous draught; but I stopped ; : 
For, over the breast of the flower-fringed stream 

An ominous shadow had dropped — : 

An ominous, awesome pall. ; 

The musky winds blew out to the sea ; ■ 

The shade of the odorous pines - 

Threw its dusky banners across ^ 

The trail of the clustering vines, | 

And darkness swept over all ! '■ 

Only last night I wandered, again. 

In a dream by the whispering sea ; 
And the musky winds were tossing the spray, i 

And the waves were singing, in minor key, j 

An exquisite, low, sweet song. ' 

And a ship came over the whispering waves, 

With swell of canvas and pennon fair ; 
With jubilant waving of snowy hands, i 



80 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

And glimmer and glint of golden hair, 
And the echo' of low, sweet song ! 

To-day the clouds are murky and low ; 

The musky breezes rise and fall ; 
The cawing crows in the level fields 
Are vexing the air with their call — 
Their dissonant, rasping call ! 
And the ship ! — Ah ! yes, the ship ! 
And the glimmer of golden hair, 
And the waving hands, and the low, sweet song 
Have melted in nebulous air, 
And darkness rests over all ! 
September, 1887. 



THE UNTEOUBLED SONG. 

I've woven too man}^ sad songs ! 

I'll weave me^a^glad one to-night ; 
If the sad little winds will stay away, 

And the stars will give me their light. 
The day was a fair and sweet one ; 

And the eve, like a breath of balm, 
Nestles about my pillow 

With a strangely tender calm. 

I will sing a bright and glad song ! 

Thus I say full many a time. 
While I weave to mystic music 

Ehythmic rune and flowing rhyme. 
But howsoe'er glad it wakens, 

Ere its gladness well is known, 
Lo! beneath the surface joyance 

Beats the old sad undertone I 

Bat to-night I'll weave a glad song! 

Help me, stars and placid moon ! 
For the wistful winds are sleeping. 

And the dews are in a swoon. 



THE UNTROUBLED SONG. 81 

Low the cricket chirps his vespers ; 

Fiick'ring soft, the firelight falls 
On my flowers near the window, 

On the pictures on the walls. 

And I feel so strangely rested ; 

Beats my pulse so quick and strong, — 
To the throb of olden music 

I could sing a gladsome song. 
All the fever-fretted fancies 

For the nonce are banished quite, 
And the touch of viewless fingers 

Sweeps the shadows out of sight. 

And a strange, untroubled gladness 

Folds its wings my heart within ; 
And a blessed peace and calmness 

Stills the world's tumultuous din. 
I know not what it omens ! 

Shall I wake to find it gone 
When the stars give up their lustre 

To the opal-tinted dawn ? 

Perhaps ! But now I'll gather 

All its sweetness — all its peace — 
That has brought to silent heart-ache 

Prophecy of glad surcease. 
And I'll weave a song whose gladness 

Shall give forth no minor strain, — 
With no whispered note of sorrow, 

And no undertone of pain. 

Soft and low, and glad and tender. 

Swells the music in my heart ; 
And a flow of measured sweetness 

Weaves the rhythmic counterpart. 
Soft and low, and glad and tender, 

Swells the music, clear and strong, 
As I weave, with peaceful heart-beats, 

This one glad, untroubled song ! 
December, 1887. 

7* 



82 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 



I 

i 

I HAYE TEIED. ^ 

I HAVE tried to straighten them smoothly, — 

The tangles of worry and pain — 
And make from the snarled and broken threads | 

" A beautiful, even skein." j 

But, my fingers are all a-tremble ) 

With the ceaseless, nervous strain ; [ 

And the tangles grow more intricate, ! 

And my efforts seem all vain. i 

I have tried to " fill up" the fabric 

Of life with a skilful " tread," \ 

And weave through the mystic pattern I 

Full many a golden thread. j 

But the warp is so wide and heavy, I 

The shuttles, like pieces of lead, ] 

Oft fall from my tremulous fingers, i 

And the threads are broken instead. 

I have tried to fashion, for singing, 

A garland of beautiful words '. 

And tunes, that for rhythmical flowing j 

Are sweet as the music of birds. ^ 

But always my songs turn to threnodes ; '. 

And whispers of passionate pain I 

Sigh through the words' measured sweetness, j 

And sob through each rhythmic refrain. \ 

I have tried, in the coldness and shadow, \ 

Some bonny, bright blossoms to grow, — i 

Some roses, and pansies, and lilies, i 

And poppies of tropical glow. ! 

But I stand in the midst of my garden ' 

At fall of the even-tide, " ■ 

And my roses and poppies are withered. 

And the pansies and lilies have died. 



/ HAVE TRIED. 83 j 

I have tried to keep in the sunlight \ 

Of the morning sweet and calm ; i 
And to drink from the day's full chalice 

Its evening dew and balm. i 

But the shadows dim the sunlight ; j 

And the glad day's sweet decline I 

Fills not, for me, its chalice j 

Of mingled dew and wine. i 

I have tried to leave my burdens j 

At the blessed Father's feet, — i 

Well knowing all His promises | 

Are full, and sure, and meet. j 
But the silent midnight watches 

Bring them back, and back again ; ; 

And I weep, e'en while with child-faith J 

I trust His failless ken. ! 

I 

I have tried to smooth, for others, [ 

Life's rough and rugged way, ■ 

And to keep the sullen shadows ' ; 

From the sweetness of their day. 

And perchance I've been successful, — i 

I am glad to think it so! ; 

And the clasp of happier fingers j 

Is a solace for much woe. ! 

j 
I have tried, and found but failure 

For myself, — but for my friends, 

I have wound some skeins quite smoothly . 

From the snarled and broken ends. 

I have wove some patterns brightly ; ; 

I have made some gleesome songs; ; 

I have given rose and lily ! 

For the pain of cureless wrongs ! 

I have waited in the shadow, ! 

That the sunlight might for them \ 

Weave a fair and ample vesture, I 

With a broad and golden hem. j 

] 



84 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

To the brim of the crystal chalice 

Of life I have tried to pour, 
For them, the nectar of gladness, — 

The wine of a happier lore. 

And perchance I've been successful, — 

I am glad to think it so ! 
And the clasp of happier fingers 

Is a solace for much woe. 
And perhaps 'twere best that failure 

Should fall where I'd fain succeed : 
Let the pessimist's gloomy challenge 

ISTot weaken the optimist's creed ! 

A}^, perhaps 'twas not intended 

That I, for myself, should gain 
The sweetness and fulness of gladness, 

Instead of the shadow and pain. 
But then I have tried — tried always 

To make the best of things ; 
And now I am tired, and long for 

The joy a crowned task brings. 

I wish I could have for a season — 

No matter how brief ere flown — 
Some flawless bliss or brightness 

To call my very own. 
Ah ! to feel that has been answered 

Just one of my wistful pleas ! 
And to quafl", just once, the sweetness 

Of a cup that holds no lees ! 

I have tried, — shall I go unguerdoned 

Because, for myself, I have failed ? 
Shall the lights I have burnished for others 

Not brighten the steeps I have scaled ? 
Perhaps ! And I'll gain, for my bosom. 

Some fair little flower when I die! — 
A pansy, a rose, or a lily. 

To wear on my breast when I die ! 
November, 1887. 



1 

i 

NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 85 i 

i 
I 

NOBLESSE OBLIGE. | 

The peasant may gauge his manners i 

Half boorishly if he will ; \ 

But the king may not, for his kingdom, ! 

Be aught but a sovereign still. • 

ISfoblesse oblige ! i 

Not much from the stealthy poacher ! 

Perhaps we may hope to find ; 
But the laird of the stately manor 

Is clay of a finer kind. 

Noblesse oblige ! ] 

Not much from the ragged loafer 

On the crowded streets a-roam ; ] 

But much from the cultured inmate 

Of a fair and happy home. ^ 

Noblesse oblige ! 

Not much from the idle gamester J 

By mart or public way ; I 

But much from him whose mission 
Is clean as the palm of day. 

Noblesse oblige ! i 

Not much from the blatant scoffer ; 

At things divine and pure ; j 

But much from the priest who teaches j 

The truths that aye must dure. \ 

Noblesse oblige ! j 

Not much from the heart untutored, — 

The lawless, untrained mind, — 
But much from the cultured spirit 

From the dross of self refined. 
Noblesse oblige ! 

Not much from the friend indifferent, — 
If indifferent friend may be, — 



86 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

But much from the friend our loving 
Has raised to a high degree. 
Noblesse oblige ! 

Not much where gifts are meagre 

Do we look for noble things ; 
But the gift of nobler station 
Like duties always brings. 
Noblesse oblige ! 
November 11, 1887. 



OLD LETTERS. 



I'm all alone this wild, dark night, — 

This night of tempest and blast, — 
So I'll sit me down and read again 

These memories of the Past. 
The night methinks a fitting one, — 

So wild, so dark, so cold ; 
For the tender warmth is long since dead 

That penned these letters old. 

Ah! these are from whom? — Let me see! 

Ah ! yes ; I promised to burn 
These dainty professions of friendship, 

In which there was much to learn. 
He thought that I loved him, I fancy, 

/only grieved for a friend ; 
" They Say'' broke the fair, sweet friendship, 

And this is the fitting end. 

And these fair lines were written 

By a Pastor's gentle hand. 
With many kindly messages 

For our little household band. 
I read them over wistfully, 

And fold with tenderest care. 
Thanking Grod, the loving Father, 

There is no unkindness there. 



OLD LETTERS. 87 

These were penned by fingers 

I shall clasp, ah! nevermore! 
They're hid away in Greenwood, ] 

"With the white snow drifting o'er. \ 

These were penned by playmates old \ 

Of the golden school-girl time, 
When the moments faded softly 

Like the vesper-bell's sweet chime. 

These from a grave Professor came, \ 

Full of thoughts and fancies sweet, \ 

Of good advice, I may follow yet. 

And many a quaint conceit. : 

These from a married friend who thinks 

No hearthstone like her own, 
And marvels that her wayward friend \ 

Should choose to walk alone. 

These from various sources came ; < 

Full of various thoughts and themes, — , 

Of mournful recollections j 

And fond, romantic dreams. 

Some bring a shadow to the brow, i 

And to the eyes a tear ; ^ 

Others touch the lips with smiles, — ] 

But all are sadly dear. 

Methinks 'tis strange that I who've lost ^ 

So much of childhood's simple faith, i 

Should hoard with such o'er-tender care \ 

These shadow-steps of friendship's wraith, — j 

'Twere better that they, too, should die ; 

I've learned this since, and think it wise ! ' 

Leap back, leap back, oh, wizard flame! 

I'll drop them where your red heart lies ! 

Uncovered in the yule-log's blaze ! { 

Leap up, leap up, oh, wizard flame ! ' 

Kiss out their sweetness with your breath, 
Their every vestige, date, and name I 



■1 

ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. \ 

I've learned 'tis wiser, better, so ! i 

If I were dead, who'd care to know, ' 

Or understand the olden trust 

That made me love and prize them so ! 

! 



THE ALTERED RESOLYE. 

With the sting of a passionate sorrow 
That rankled too deep in my heart 

For the hope of o'er-easy forgetting, 
And the ultimate cure of its smart, 

I turned to my Muse o'er-indulgent, 
Invoking her smoothest of flights, 

Her fullest of soft Lydian measures. 
Her sweetest of dreams and delights, 

For the sudden impulsion of weaving, 

A story one only might glean. 
With the light of a clear understanding 

Of all it might shadow and mean. 

For the painting in opulent colors 
Of a picture to show but to one, 

Where the light was but luminous scorning. 
And the shade was but wrath of the sun. 

And she gave from her mystical treasures 

Full many a soft-tinted gleam, 
With the flowing of rhythmical sweetness 

That was worthy a happier theme. 

And I told, in the soft Lydian measures. 

My story of passionate pain ; 
And I knew where the measure was sweetest 

Would gender its deadliest bane. 



THE ALTERED RESOLVE. 89 

And I painted, in opulent colors, 

The picture that tortured my heart ; 

And I knew where the colors were brightest 
'Twould wound with a pitiless dart. 

And the picture in opulent colors, 
The story in smooth-flowing rhyme, 

I said, with a touch of derision, 
I'll keep for all measure of time ! 

In the heart of the book I am making 

I'll give them a permanent place ; 
And the heart that shall read, understanding. 

Shall find them too true to efface ! 

Only one shall be wiser for reading ; 

Only one shall be pained by the truth; 
That is well ; for I fashioned them only 

For one's recognition, forsooth ! 

But the heat of impulsive resentment 
Went out while I brooded and grieved ; 

And I thought, with a tender contrition. 
Perhaps I was only deceived. 

And what is faith worth if it trusts not 

Through silence, if silence be best ? 
Through accident, fate, and mutation 

Of fortune, and failure of quest ? 

And if it was just as I deemed it. 

Would a blow on the heart set it right ? 

And the sorrow go out with the smiting 
Of lips I have kissed in the light? 

Nay, nay, and were it so, surely, 

Would I be so ignoble and mean 
As to give for the pain I had suffered 

A blow just as cruel and keen ? — 
8 



90 ASPHODELS AND PANSIES. 

Brin^ a pang to the breast where I've rested, 
A flush to the cheek where I've laid 

My own, with unconscious caressing, 
Too often for pain to upbraid ? 

Nay, nay, for the tempest of sorrow 
I'll bring not a pang to that breast, 

Though it weave for my heart's further bearing 
A burden of wilder unrest. 

So the picture in opulent colors, 

And the story in smooth-flowing rhyme. 

To the bosom of ultimate chaos 
I give for all measure of time. 



IVY AND BALM. 



lYY AND BALM. 

Oh, friend of my heart, 'tis a pretty conceit j 

To tell in the " Language of Flowers" *. 

The dreams of the heart that have gathered their ) 

sweet, ; 

And mystical life from the bowers 1 

Where satiny tendrils of Ivy entwine ; 

And the odor of Balm falls faintly, — j 

Emblems that hold in one mystical sign ' 

Dear friendship and sympathy saintly. j 
i 



THE BONNY YOUNG BRTDE OF THE WHITE i 
HOUSE. 

Oh, wake from the thrall of thy languorous dreaming, \ 

Sweet-souled Erato, and weave thee a strain ! i 

Sweeter the theme than thine own sweetest seeming, i 

Fuller of joy than thy gladdest refrain ! j 

Come where the west lights, all crimson and golden, ! 

Broider the windows with prismatic sheen, ; 

Weave from the tints of their radiance olden [ 

Pictures of gold for our sweet-hearted queen. 
The Bonny Young Bride of the White House I 

Over the threshold of beautiful Summer, 

Through the rose-gardens of odorous June, " 
Came to our Nation this dainty new-comer, 

Crowned with the welcome of all this attune! ! 

Only a girl, with a girl's winsome sweetness ■ 

Changing to womanhood's tenderer grace ! 

Only a girl ! But the years' winged fleetness i 

Pledge with new beauty of spirit or face i 

The Bonny Young Bride of the White House! i 

91 i 



92 IVV AND BALM. 

Only a girl ! But the heart of the Nation ' 

Thrilled with the pulse of a national pride j 

When to the height of his own stainless station j 

The Chief of the Land led his beauteous bride. i 

Kever a heart that is wholesome and tender 

Grudges the lot of the sweet-hearted girl ; 
Beauty and truth are but meet for the splendor 

That goldens the life of this fair human pearl, j 

This Bonny Young Bride of the White House ! ! 

Sweet-souled Erato, thine own mystic mission 

Scarcely can fashion a psean too sweet! i 

Dew-laden blossoms from gardens Elysian ; 

Scarce for her crowning could be more than meet ! 
Bright as the land in its summer-crowned glory, 

Deep as the sea in its fathomless sheen, | 

Sweeter than sweetest in legend or story. 

Be the heart's-ease of our sweet-hearted queen, j 

The Bonny Young Bride of the White House ! j 

Ages on ages have gathered life's treasures! 

Ages on ages shall gather them still ! 
Sweet-souled Erato, let Love's softest measures 

Muffle the sigh in its passionate thrill. 
Sweeter than life is Love's noble endeavor! 

Dearer than Love is the guerdon it wins ! 
Blest as the now be the mystic forever. 

Stretching away where thy new life begins, 

Oh, Bonny Young Bride of the White House ! ' 

1886. 



'^AUF WIEDEESEHEK" 

"AuF WiEDERSEHEN." Somcwhcrc I saw the quaint, i 

sweet words, i 

And all their wistful meaning thrilled me with a sense | 

of nameless pain ; j 

For, with their sad significance came wistful thoughts j 

of you, dear friend, | 

And all your frank, true friendship is to me. ■ 



''AUF WIEDERSEHEN:' 93 

And tho' we meet full often now, and years may grant 

US still to walk 
In pathways that shall often touch, and bridge the 

intervening days 
With friendly clasp of hands, and sympathetic words 

of hope and cheer. 

Some time you'll go away, and I shall miss you more 

than you will ever know or guess; 
For 'tis true, as some sweet, wistful- hearted singer says. 
When two friends part, the one to go 'mid newer scenes, 
And find 'mid strangers newer friends. 
The other to stay amid the old, familiar scenes, 
Grown dearer with the memory of the dear friend gone, 
" The one who stays behind is sadder far than he who 

goes." 

No doubt you think me but a silly child 

To let the shadow of a pain, that may not come for 

many a day, 
Thus cloud the fitful brightness of the present time. 
But I have learned to hoard with tenderest care 
The few bright things that life has given me with such 

o'er-miser hands. 
And hold them all the closer for the scarcity that makes 

them dear. 

And I have learned to prize — as only those whose inner 
Lives hold hidden depths of sadness all unguessed 
Learn how to prize the glad and beautiful of earth — 
The strong, bright friendship you have given me 
With such frank and glad, unstinting warmth ; 
For, with the suniiy brightness of your own glad life. 
You've tinged with gold the veiling sombreness of mine. 
And taught my wistful heart to trust for happier days 

to come — 
For happier days to come, " Auf Wiedersehen !" 
And if we never meet again this side the Pearly Grates 

and the many mansions fair. 
Please God, our mansions may be very near 
Each to the other in that fair, glad land 

8* 



94 IVV AND BALM. 

Where, never more the wistful strain, "Auf Wieder- 

selien," 
Shall thrill the heart with nameless pain, and dim the 

eyes with quick, unbidden tears. 
But now, with strangely lingering hands, I wind the 

sad, sweet words 
Through rhythmic measures soft and slow, 
A mystic bridge to span the years when you are gone — 
The long, long years that Time shall count 

" Auf Wiedersehen !" 



TO ANNIE. 



" Beyond the cloud the sun still shines." 

Oh ! trustful heart, be strong and true ! 
In Grod's own time the clouds will break 

And let the golden sunlight through; 
They may be dense and sombre now, 

The " silver lining" out of sight, 
But every cloud, however dark. 

Has one side lined with golden light. 

The sombre side is ofttimes ours. 

Because our weak faith cannot trace 
The curling edges fringed with gold 

Eeflected from the sun's bright face. 
Beyond the cloud the sun still shines! 

Above, the dear God's love is sure; 
Ah ! trust Him, darling, for His grace, 

Firm and sufficient, shall endure. 

Better than I you know the way, — 

Or else, you better keep it, dear ; 
My weak feet halt and wander oft, 

My heart grows sick with doubt and fear ; 
Yet, through it all, one sweet, sweet thought 

Keeps with me ever, day by day, — 
The dear G-od watcheth even me. 

He will direct and guide my way. 



BONNY BELLE. 95 

I cannot teach you, darling, yet 

May wake some thought within your mind 
That, like fair Sharon's dewy Eose, 

May leave a long perfume behind ; 
Some dream of mine may lead your thoughts 

Beyond the storm-cloud's sombre hue, 
And Faith's sweet eyes catch glimpses fair 

Of sunlight warm and heaven's own blue. 

" Beyond the cloud the sun still shines." 

Oh! trusting heart, be strong and true! 
In God's own time the clouds will break 

And let the golden sunlight through; 
They ma,y be dense and sombre now, 

The " silver lining" out of sight, 
But every cloud, however dark, 

Has one side lined with golden light. 



BONNY BELLE. 



The Muses are slumbering softly, 

And languorously dreaming the while ; 
But the Aspens are weaving a glamour 

Of the threads of the sunbeam's smile, 
And ripples of South Sea breezes 

Eivet the wildering spell 
That fashions my thoughts into dreamings 

Of thee, my friend, Bonny Belle ! 

And I gather the rippling music 

Of singing leaves and birds, 
And fashion it into a garland 

Of quaintest thoughts and words. 
And fasten it with the whisper 

I found in an ocean shell, 
Long, long before I knew thee, 

My dear friend, Bonny Belle ! 



96 IVF AND BALM. 

And over the miles of emerald 



And through the corridors blue, 
I send it to thee as a token 

Of friendship warm and true ; 
And over the years of the future 

Perhaps 'twill tenderly swell 
A memory chime to 'mind thee 

Of me, sweet Bonny Belle ! 

I am done ; I gathered it softly 

From ocean, and earth, and air. 
And fashioned it into a garland 

Of love-thoughts sweet and rare, 
For one whose kindness binds me 

With friendship's royal spell, 
Whatever fate befalls me, — 

My dear friend, Bonny Belle ! 



FOE "DAJ^NIE.' 



As Time goes by, and the years grow old, 
Full many a sheaf from the fields of gold 

You'll cull from the plenteous reaping. 
Ah ! gather the grain with a tender hand ! 
'Twas sown, perchance, at Fate's command. 

In bitterest pain and weeping! 

For oft, we know, the poet's song. 

Though sweet, and clear, and brave, and strong, 

Holds hints of deepest sorrow ; 
And the saddest lips are those that pray, 
In the sweet, wan light of yesterday. 

For the beautiful to-morrow. 

Culling the bud and golden sheaf. 
Full many a tiny, fragrant leaf 
Of mine, may bring you gladness ; 



SEMPER FIDELIS. 97 

Some wistful dream, some tender thought, 
Whose chiefest sweetness has been caught 
From the heart's unspoken sadness. 

And in the years to come, dear friend, 
Their wistful sweetness aje may tend 

To draw our hearts still nearer ; 
Fulfilled, or unfulfilled, each dream 
Will add to life a fairer gleam, 

And make our friendship dearer. 

You'll read these lines with clearer sight 
In the after-gleam of vanished light, 

And hold me truer, dearer ; 
For the wistful hope that reaches out 
From the veiling mists of pain and doubt 

To a day whose skies are clearer, — 

To a day whose tender light may bring. 
Fulfilled beneath its scented wing. 

The wistful hope's full sweetness; 
And the vanished years may lose their pain 
In the happy thought of another's gain, — 

Of another life's completeness. 
1883. 



SBMPEE FIDELIS. 

Always faithful, always true. 

Separate or together ; 
Through evil as through good report, 

In foul or sunny weather ; 
Through mazes dark of lengthening years, 

While stemming life's dark billows. 
Till one or both lie down to sleep 

Beneath the church-yard willows. 



98 IVF AND BALM. \ 

I 
Be this our watchword, shield and guard, ' 

Our motto true and tender: 
Semper Fidelis till the grave . ; 

Shall claim the heart's surrender; i 

And then, when at the river's brink 1 

We drop all earthly leaven, i 

We'll keep our motto still unstained, — ; 

Semper Fidelis in heaven. ■ 

1866. 



LINES AT EEQUEST OF A LITTLE FEIBND, 

You ask me for a verse or two. 

What shall I write that will please you best? 
What can I wish or what can I say 
To brighten the flowers along your way, 

Or gladden a life already blest ? 

Not many springs have dropped their light 

And odorous incense on your head ; 

The sweet and charmed precincts of youth — 
That Fairyland of love and truth — 

Still echo with jouy joyous tread ; 

Its shining skies droop over all, — 

Its fair pavilions stretch away, 
Like fairy tents that rise and fall 
At beckoning hand, or gladsome call, 

Of childish voices sweet and gay. 

But sweet and brief as are the years. 

Your eager feet are hurrying on, 
And soon will cross the mystic line 
That lies atween your life and mine. 

And youth, and youth's sweet joys, be gone. 

Your eager fingers long to draw 

The weird, mysterious screen aside. 
And gather up those later joys 
That take the place of childhood's toys, 

In womanhood's arena wide. 



LINES AT REQUEST OF A LITTLE FRIEND. 99 

Don't be in baste, my little friend; 

For cbildbood's flowers bave fewer tborns 
Tban tbose wbich bloom along tbe way 
Our womanbood's tired feet must stray. 

'Tis but June's eves for May's sweet morns! 

My own cbildbood lies up tbe stream, — 
Tbe waves are not so brigbt as tben, — 
But, ab ! it blooms in Memory's smile 
Like some fair, green, and sunny isle 
Tbat I sball never see again. 

I do not say life's later years 
. Bring naugbt of bope, or joy, or bliss ; 
Only I find so mucb of care, 
So many burdens bard to bear, — 

My cbild-life seemed more fair tban tbis. 

Sweet womanbood finds many a joy 
If but tbe beart keeps pure and true ; 
And many a fond and tender dream 
Enwinds its brigbt and golden gleam 
Life's tangled mesbes tbrougb and tbrougb. 

Tben I will wisb, my little friend, 
Tbat wben your eager feet sball cross 
Tbe mystic line tbat winds its sbeen 
* Fair womanbood and youtb between, 

You'll find pure gold instead of dross ; 

And tbat your brigbt, young life sball be 

Cast in tbe fairest, truest mould 

Of perfect womanbood and trutb, — 
Tbat promise of a stainless youtb 

More precious far tban mines of gold, — 
A true woman 1 



100 IVY AND BALM, 



"OUR MIOTSTEE'S BABE." 

Our minister's babe, — have you seen her ? 

Such a darling, — so winsome and fair, — 
With the fairest of lily faces, 

And the sunniest rings of hair; 
And eyes of the tenderest azure 

A midsummer sky ever wore ; 
And lips like the daintiest rose-leaves 

The sweetness of June ever bore. 

Such a wee, wee maid, — such a dainty girl, 

With her rose-leaf palms and tiny feet, 
And the winsome smile that curves the bow 

Of the rose-red lips so fair and sweet. 
But the rose-leaf palms are fetters of gold ; 

The rose-red lips are sweeter than wine ; 
And the laughing eyes of faith's own hue 

Are borrowed lights from a home divine. 

Dear little maiden, — wee, white pearl ! 

Let me fashion a wish for thee ; 
Held in the light of a wistful prayer 

'Twill fold a blessing down on me : 
Through changing years, through shifting scenes, 

God grant thy soul, for a^^e and aye, 
May keep as sweetly pure and white 

As the lily face I kissed to-day. 
1878. 



'TIS SUCH A LITTLE WHILE. 

We've such a little while, oh, friend ! 

To help each, other down the way ! 
Life is so short, the lone hours fill 

So fast the measure of each day ! 



'TIS SUCH A LITTLE WHILE. 101 

To-day, the flowers bloom so fair, — 
To-morrow, what shall be their doom ? 

Ah ! can we risk another sun 
Shall bring them aught of fairer bloom ? 

To-day, the sunlight gilds the hills ; 

To-morrow, storms may sweep the sky; 
To-day, our lips are warm with life ; 

To-morrow, one of us may lie 

Death-deaf to friendship's tenderest prayer, — 
Death-heedless of its wants and needs ! 

Alas ! mutation breathes its blight 
On all our human hopes and creeds ! 

If I can make thy life more bright, 

If thou canst make my path less drear, 

Why should the sureness of to-day 
Than unborn sweetness seem less dear? 

The strongest of us sometimes need 

The tender touch of loving hands; 
The weakest of us sometimes give 

The very help that strength demands I 

If we can help each other, friend, 

Oh! let us help each other noio ; 
To-morrow may be sweet and fair, 

But Love may weep a death-paled brow. 

And lips we loved to kiss, may give 
To ours, no more their pressure warm ! 

The day that wakes mid rosy clouds 
Is sometimes closed with wildest storm. 



To-day, if hand or voice can soothe, 
For slender space, each other's pain, 

Why should the hand withhold its touch ? 
Why should the voice its charm restrain ? 



102 IVV AND BALM. 

'Tis such a little while, oh, friend ! 

At most, it cannot be for long! 
The troubled years' unfathomed flood 

Sets in a current swift and strong. 

To-day, if hand or voice can soothe, 

For one small moment, life's unrest. 
Oh, hand, be swift! oh, voice, be sweet! 
Love's ministry of love is blest! 
1886. 



LINES IN AN ALBUM. 

Oh ! life hath aye its gladsome days 
To compensate its sorrows ! 

And Love hath aye its deathless bays 
To crown its golden morrows ! 

Then if amid life's fragrant bloom 
Some days for thee be dreary, 

And if within their cheerless gloom 
Thy heart grows sick and weary, 

Eemember what I tell thee here, — 
Life hath its gladsome hours ; 

And for its tears and shadows drear, 
Love's recompense of flowers ! 

Ay, life hath aye its gladsome days 
To compensate its sorrows ; 

And love hath aye its deathless bays 
To crown its golden morrows ! 

And when the morrow and to-day 

Are lost in Heaven's fruition, 
God grant thy feet may find their way 
Amid the fields Elysian ! 
1884. 



THE FALLING-OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS. 103 



" THE FALLTISTG-OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS 
RENEWING IS OF L07E." 

One eve, in conning, listlessly, a trill of ancient rhymes, 

I found one thought, half peevishly, recurring many 
times ; 

And, with the strange persistency a thought will some- 
times gain, 

I sought to find a melody to suit the quaint refrain. 

And, as I rummaged carefully among the wheat and 
tares, 

I wondered if the ancient rhyme is true as it declares. 

Ay, wondered if to every heart the proverb true doth 
prove, 

" The falling-out of faithful friends renewing is of 
love!" 

If kisses are but sweeter after words of open rage 

Flame to flame have added fuel, feet to feet have 
thrown the gage. 

If caresses are but fonder after coldness and disdain 

Brow to brow have brought the shadows, heart to 
heart have given pain, 

Then methinks 'twere better, surely, in our bliss- 
securing quest, 

Now and then to pick a quarrel with the friend we 
love the best, 

And thus secure the blissfulness the adage swears to 
prove. 

That "falling-out of faithful friends renewing is of 
love." 

But conning still the olden song, I question is it true 

That " falling-out of faithful friends" doth aye sweet 
love renew ? 

7s there " no woman, man, nor beast, no creature bear- 
ing life. 

Can well be known to live in love without discord and 
strife?" 



104 . IVr AND BALM. 

If truest friends may hedge their love with tenderness 

about, 
And " yet are never friends indeed until they once fall 

out" ? 
Heigho ! heigho ! oh, ancient rhymes, I wish ye well 

may prove 
" The falling-out of faithful friends renewing is of love !" 
1887. 



LINES WITH A WEOUGHT GIFT. 

Whatsoever thoughts are pure, and sweet, and true, — 
Whatsoever dreams reach down the vista of ungathered 

3^ears 
And gild their shadows with unfading gold, — 
Whatsoever hopes reach up the golden heights 
And bear the wistful spirit on their snowy wings, — 
Whatsoever prayers are pure enough 
To lie within the glory of the G-reat White Throne, — 
All these, and more than these, 
I've wrought in this dear labor of my hands. 



And you will prize it more, I ween, 

For the wistful heart that planned the quaint conceit. 

And the wistful hand that wrought with such devoted 

care ; 
And you will read, " between the lines," in far-off years 
The soft pathetic words my lips have said. 
And your eyes will rest, in unforgetting tenderness, 
Upon this loving labor of my hands. 



FOR EMMA'S ''SCRAP-BOOK.'' 105 



FOR EMMA'S "SCRAP-BOOK." 

There's many a song from the golden clime 
In the rhythmic rune of the Poet's rhyme 

That garlands these scented pages ; 
And many a ray from the stars sublime 
That glow on the deathless hills of Time, 

The Sentinel Hills of Ages. 

And over the heights of the golden stars, 
And beyond the gleam of the sunset bars, 

Where the fields Elysian glimmer. 
The singers roam by the lucid streams 
Whereon the radiant summer beams 

Fall in a golden shimmer. 

And over the ruin and wreck of years. 
The spirit's surcharge of sorrow and tears, 

Their sweetness clings and closes, 
As the happy dreams of childhood's day, 
And the shattered vase, retain for aye 

The scent of summer roses. 

Have you ever thought of the wistful pain 

That flows, perchance, through the gladdest strain 

You sing in your girlish fashion? 
Oh ! gather them tenderly, maiden fair ! 
Bach one is a threnody, psalm, or prayer 

From the heart's unsounded passion. 

And for this treasure of rhythmical rhyme 
You ask me to garland a thought sublime 

With the Poet's fatal dower. 
Semper Fidelis, — tender and low. 
The words come back from the Long Ago, 

With their old resistless power. 
9* 



106 JVV AND BALM. 

And tenderly slow, like a breath of prayer, 
I fashion them into a garland, where 

Your gaze will often wander ; 
And through the years be they brief or long, 
Clouded with tears or bright with song, 

The motto sweet may ponder. 

Semper Fidelis, — pansies of thought 
Garland the fancy my dreams have wrought 

With buds of rarer beauty. 
Semper Fidelis, — Life is so fleet ! 
Semper Fidelis, — Motto so meet, — 

To God, to Love, to Duty ! 



THE THREE KISSES. j 

I KISS you once, on the lips, dear; 

A gentle kiss that is half a prayer ; : 

And beg you'll fold it softly down , 

On other lips that are sweet and fair, j 

And tell her I sent it with my love, : 

And prayerful wish that all the years 
Of Love's dear pilgrimage shall find -i 

God's golden sunshine for life's tears. # 

I kiss you once, on the brow, dear ; 

A tender kiss that is all a prayer, . ' 

That the loving Father aye may hold 

Your life within His sheltering care, — ■ 

That the gentle Shepherd's loving hand 

May guide your footsteps softly, where 
Life's peaceful waters flow serene : 

Through meadows green and pastures fair ! 

I kiss you once, on the hand, dear ; i 

A soft, sad kiss, you understand. 
As my trembling lips just touch the sheen : 

Of the glittering, golden band 



''WAITING AND WATCHING.^' 107 

That winds around one finger white, 

And sets, with its golden gleam, 
The fresh, glad thoughts of a happy heart 

To the song of a broken dream. 

Three kisses soft I give you, dear; 

Three links in a mystic chain, — 
A wish, a prayer, and a wistful hope 

Athrob in the same sweet strain. 
And if 'tis best, our God will grant 

The tender wish and loving prayer ; 
And the wistful hope will show, at last, 

A precious bloom divinely fair. 



'^ WAITING A-NB WATCHING." j 

" Waiting and watching" for what, dear heart ? I 

"Waiting and watching" for what? j 

I bow my head, and the hot tears start, • 

As my own heart echoes, For what ? j 

Shall it be rest for the " weary days" ? ^ -^ 

Shall it be light for the hours of gloom ? 

Shall it be Duty's dear-earned bays, ' \ 

And life's sweet aftermath of bloom ? ] 

" Waiting and watching" for what, dear heart ? : 

" Waiting and watching" for what ? ■■ 

The Father, He knoweth best, dear heart, j 

And His own love faileth not. ■ 
" Waiting and watching" for what, dear heart ? 

Cometh the good or cometh the ill, ; 

Cometh joy or pain, dear heart, ; 

His own strong arm shall compass thee still, ] 

" Waiting and watching" for what, dear heart ? i 

Oh ! if my prayers can aught avail, i 

Joy and light will come, dear heart, j 

With Time's slow lifting of the veil ; I 



108 IVF AND BALM. 

And bappy years shall come, dear heart, 
To recompense these " weary days," 

And Faith's fair guerdon crown, dear heart. 
Thy life with more than earthly bays. 

"Waiting and watching" for what, dear heart? 

Oh ! leave it all to the Father's care ! 
Cometh joy or pain, dear heart, 

We've left us Faith, and Love, and Prayer. 
And, above all these, we've God, dear heart, 

And His tender love shall choose our way ; 
And cometh good or ill, dear heart. 

There's rest, at last, for the weariest day ! 



A HANDFUL OF LETTEES. 

As I sat in the transient gloaming 

Of a wind-wearied, storm-troubled day. 
With my gaze on the flickering firelight. 

And my thoughts, in a dream, far away, 
A handful of letters cleft softly 

The glint of the flickering light, 
And dropped on my lap, in the shadow, 

Like birds from a wearisome flight. 

Half listless, with invalid languor, 

I scanned superscriptions, to learn 
If strangers, or friends, were the writers, — 

If kindly the message, or stern ; 
For, true to an old childish fancy. 

If sorrowful message (I claim) 
Is hidden away in a letter, 

'Tis spelled through the words of my name. 

Ah ! one from a hand far too kindly 
To wound b}^ a pen's clever stroke. 

Looked up through the flickering firelight, 
And gentlest of fancies awoke. 



A HANDFUL OF LETTERS. 109 

The others kept closely their secrets, 

Nor hinted, by subtilest change, 
If kindly, or cold, came the message 

From hands unfamiliar and strange. 

With sensitive, instinctive shrinking 

I turned from the writers unknown ; 
If sadness should come with the reading, 

'Twere better to leave it alone 
Till the wine of a chalice more kindly 

Should strengthen the fluttering pulse, 
And the sureness of happier greeting 

The fear of disaster expulse. 

But the fear of disaster was groundless ! 

Kind greetings from friends far away 
Fell, soft as the nectar of dew-drops. 

On roses at close of the day. 
Came one from the beautiful City, 

(Fair home of my childhood's day !) 
That stands in the nebulous distance 

Like a Queen in full royal array. 

And kind was the message, and softly 

It fell on my sore, troubled heart ; 
And the pulse of a failing endeavor 

Came back with a soul-lifting start. 
Dear friend ! may the measure she meted 

Wait full, at her spirit, some day ! 
And the clasp of a hand never-failing, 

Lead softly each step of her way ! 

And one, o'er the nebulous vastness 

Of luminous leagues and miles. 
Came, like the odor of spices. 

From beautiful, far-away isles, — 
Fair "Kingdom" arock on the billows 

That shimmer, and roll, and run. 
With crestings of opaline splendor, 

Far away to the " Eising Sun." 



110 IVr AND BALM. \ 

"With mingling of pleasure and pathos, j 

And unbroken shadows between ! 

The fair, little patches of sunlight, \ 

And ripples of odorous sheen, ' 

This friend in the far-away islands ; 

Gave news of the fair, pagan land i 
Asleep where the sonorous l3illows 

Die out on the glittering strand. 

■| 

And measure of friendliest greeting, \ 

And fulness of kindliest hopes, 

Were sown through the heart of the missive j 

That came from the emerald slopes j 

Of the "Kingdom" arock on the billows ] 

That shimmer, and roll, and run, i 

With crestings of opaline splendor, j 

Far away to the " Eising Sun." ! 

November 8, 1887. j 



ICH DIEN.— TO STELLA. 

You ask for a motto ; I wonder if mine 

Will suit your fastidious will. 
It came from the heart of the land of the Ehine, 

And the charm of its home gilds it still. 

'Tis homely ; but sweet as the heart of the vine 
That ripens 'neath fond Grerman skies ; 

The germ of an element purely divine 
The heart of its creed underlies. 

For king, on his throne, it were fully as meet 

As for vassal that serves his behest ; 
For priest at the altar, for child in the street, 

For patient home-keeper and guest. 

Not always, perhaps, is it easy to meet 

The service the motto deems due. 
What thanks have we, friend, if we only find sweet 

The service we gladly would do ? 



GLADYS, THE CHILD OF THE FORT HI 

The sacrifice hid, for another to reap 

A harvest of happier things ; 
The sorrow repressed, that another ma}" keep 

The gladness of unclouded Springs ; 

The patient endeavor that walks with the day, 
And lingers far down through the night ; 

The waiting that wins neither guerdon nor pay, 
And the watching that brings not the light ; — 

All these may the motto require at the hand 
Of one who shall take for one's own 

This homely device of the fair Ehenish land, 
And serve for the service alone. 

You ask for a motto ; I know only this : 

I've tacitly worn it for years. 
I leave you to fathom its pain and its bliss, 

And measure its laughter and tears. 
September, 1887. 



GLADYS, THE CHILD OF THE FOET. 

INSCRIBED TO GLADYS'S GRANDPA. 

In the "Far Northwest," where the "hills" stand 
dressed 

In their living robe of sombre green, 
One goldener spot, by the sun caressed. 

Stands clothed with a newer, fairer sheen. 
Because, from the heart of the mystic land. 

One fragrant day in the glad young June, 
With the flush of its rose in her dimpled hand. 

Came, soft as the breath of a low love-tune. 
Wee Gladys, the Child of the Fort. 

Ah! the " hills" may lift to the cold, blue sky 
The emerald fringe of their sombre crest; 

But the opulent beams of a glad sun lie 

Like a cloth of gold on their rugged breast. 



112 IVr AND BALM. 

And the grim old fort, with its frowning walls, 
Transfigured seems in the strange, new light; 

And the barracks stretch into courtliest halls 

That cradle the dreams of this fair, wee sprite, — 
Sweet Grladys, the Child of the Fort ! 

Ah ! dear is the home where the fair Chesapeake 

Stretches the length of its luminous tide. 
And lovingest thoughts of the soul yet seek 

The halcyon haunts of its ingle-side! 
But a lovelier life into sweetness blooms 

Out where the mountains are gloomy and grand, 
And the heart makes ready its choicest of rooms 

To welcome the touch of the dimpled hand 
Of Gladys, the Child of the Fort! 

Ah ! the " hills" may lift to the cold, blue sky 

The emerald fringe of their sombre crest ; 
But the opulent beams of a glad sun lie 

Like a cloth of gold on their rugged breast. 
And the grim old fort transfigured seems 

'Neath a glad baptismal flood of light ; 
And life is sweet with prophetic dreams 

That centre about this new delight, — 
Our Gladys, the Child of the Fort ! 
October 8, 1887. 



GLADYS'S PICTUEE. 

One evening, with my sorted mail, 

A packet strange, and large of size, 
Lay wrapped within an amber veil, 

A challenge mute for deft surmise. 
I pondered superscription well, — 

As folks do o'er an unknown hand, — 
As though I thought some occult spell 

Was woven through the letters bland. 



GLADYS'S PICTURE. 113 

'Twas safe to guess some 'picture fair ' 

Lay hidden from my puzzled eyes. : 

But whose ? What art-creation rare • 

Was meant to give me sweet surprise ? j 

At last I broke the jealous seal, \ 

From inner wrappings gently drew j 

The shining card that should reveal , 

The unexpected gift to view. i 

And, lo ! a baby's flower-like face ! : 

A bonny baby's tender eyes ! 
A picture full of baby grace. 

And baby looks demurely wise. 
Whence came the winsome, fair, wee sprite ? : 

Methought I knew each baby friend ' 

Whose laughing eyes, to glad my sight, '■ 

Love's iridescent beams could lend. 

I sought to make the mystery plain, — 

A legend quaint supplied the key, — , 

And when I scanned the face again 

Wee Gladys's qjqq looked up to me. i 

Dear bonny babe ! How rarely sweet i 

Her flower-like face and air demure ! \ 

Each baby charm, with grace replete, j 

Eevealed the spirit fair and pure ! : 

Dear bonny babe! While sweet thoughts live j 

Thy winsome face shall treasured be ! 
No fitter, fairer donative ] 

Thy pine-crowned " hills" could send to me. : 

And much I prize the kindly thought 

That sought such graceful thanks to show \ 

For tender fancies deftly wrought ] 

Athrough a poem's rhythmic flow. | 

Dear bonny babe! for promise quaint 

Sent with thy picture I shall wait, 
Unless the years that fade and faint 

Thy life or mine shall terminate 

10 ! 



114 IVr AND BALM. 

Ere yet thy tiny hand may dare 
Essay the pen's slow letterings! 

Meanwhile I'll give thy picture fair 
Safe keep among my treasured things. 
November 30, 1887. 



THE BEIDE'S ROSES. 

One mist-clouded day in the wane of the year 

I lay in the proneness of weakness and pain, 
And languidly noted how sombre and drear 

Was growing the splendor of dear Autumn's reign; 
And I thought me, half sadly, how long I had been 

Shut in from the beauty of Nature serene, 
While the asphodel glory of Summer swooned in 

The opulent grandeur of October sheen. 

And thus as I lay, with my gaze far away 

Beyond the dull garden and odorless bow'rs, 
A maiden came close to the bed where I lay, 

And gave me a handful of exquisite flow'rs, — 
The gift of a bride who, the evening before, 

Had taken the vows of a wife on her soul, 
And, e'en as I fondled the flow'rs o'er and o'er, 

Was speeding away to love's beckoning goal. 

And a wish full of kindness went out from my heart 

For the happy young bride who could thoughtfully 
send, 
Of her fair bridal roses, so generous a part 

To comfort the gaze of her sick " poet friend." 
In a slender-wrought goblet of transparent sheen 

Most softly I gathered each exquisite bloom, 
And softly I prayed that the thorns hid between 

Might presage no shadow of sorrow nor gloom. 

Life's roses, like those in the gardens of June, 
Have hidden away where their petals droop o'er, 

Full many a thorn, that a time importune 
May lay on the spirit a festering sore. 



THE BRIDE'S ROSES. 115 

But hearts wisely dowered may learn the sweet art 
Of culling life's roses with fingers so skilled 

That sharpest of thorns may not pierce to the heart, 
Nor menace the sweetness of hope's love-distilled. 

So I prayed, as I thought of the bride far away. 

Life's roses for her might be fragrant and fair ; 
That the presence of thorns that are with them alway, 

Prove but the sign-royal of happiness rare ; 
That softly the light of a perfecter day 

May round from the dreams of her fair, girlish prime ; 
And the sweetness of life find its myrtle and bay 

In the duties that come with the lapsing of time. 

Once again I lie with my gaze far away 

Beyond the dull garden and odorless bow'rs. 
But the gathering hush of the mist-clouded day 

Is full of the odor of exquisite flow'rs ; 
And softly I turn where the exquisite flow'rs 

Are falling adroop in the languorous air. 
And bless the dear bride for the soft rested hours 

That followed the gift of her roses so fair. 
October 28, 1887. 



GORSE AND SYRINGA. 



GOESE AND SYEINGA. ' 

In gladsome days of years agone 

I loved the lilac's purple spires ; 
And childish fancy swept our fields 

With British Gorse's yellow fires. ' 

To-day I cull Syringa blooms i 

With loving touch of loving hands, i 

And Fancy twines their fragrant breath | 

With yellow Gorse of British lands, — j 

An emblematic wreath of love, \ 

A mystic breath of memory bloom, — i 

A golden glow of fadeless light, j 

A living dream of rare perfume! j 
1887. 



FOR MY MOTHER'S SAKE. 

All other brows, once smooth and fair, 
Now crowned with bands of silver hair, 
All lips bereft of crimson dye 
Are fair, and comely to my eye, 
For my Mother's sake. 

All forms now bent by weight of years ; 
All eyes grown dim by age and tears; 
All feet grown weary by the way. 
Are beautiful to me to-day. 
For my Mother's sake. 
116 



TO MY MOTHER. 117 

All cheeks once round, and smooth, and fair, 
Now seamed by years, or paled by care, 
All hands once deft, and fair to see, 
Are like dear pictures unto me. 
For my Mother's sake. 

All voices once of sweetest tone, 
Now broken, weak, and feeble grown, 
Are sweet as harp or lute to me, 
And full of pure, rich melody. 
For my Mother's sake. 

All hearts whose work is almost done, 
Whose pulse-beats weaken one by one, 
Are like rare wine in bottles old, 
Or deep, rich mines of purest gold, 
For my Mother's sake. 

My own dear mother's silver hair, 
And patient face, and loving care. 
Have crowned all other brows with light 
Whereon the frosts of Time lie white; 
And for her sake they'll always be 
Beautiful and dear to me ; 
Whoever else I may contemn, 
God keep me ever kind to them 
For my Mother's sake! 



TO MY MOTHER 

Oh ! weary feet, that such long years 

Have kept their uncomplaining way, j 

If rough or smooth life's beaten path, 

If fair or foul life's measured day ! 
I watch ye lying now so still, 

Close-fettered by sweet Slumber's chain, ; 

And question if my younger feet j 

Have saved ye from some steps of pain. i 

10* i 



118 GORSE AND SYRINGA. 

Oh ! weary hands, that such long years, 

Through countless hours of pain unguessed, i 

For husband, friends, and children dear, \ 

In shade and sheen, have done their best! j 

I watch jQ lying now so still, I 

Sleep-fettered on my mother's breast, 

And ask how oft my younger hands i 

Have given ye help or needed rest. | 

Oh ! weary eyes, that such long years \ 

Have watched and waited all the way, \ 

To keep the pathway bright and clear, ' 

Lest we should faint or go astray ! . ; 
I watch ye, closed, death-fiashion, now, ' ■ 

The gold-lit lashes turned to white, ' \ 

And question if my younger eyes '. 

Have helped to save your failing sight. \ 

Oh ! weary lips, that such long years 

Have murmured prayers, or comfort lent, — 
Have patience and forbearance shown, — 

Have counsel and approval blent ! 
I watch ye, now so wan and mute. 

The seal of slumber on your snow, ! 

And question if my younger lips \ 

Will always such compassion show. j 

1 

Oh ! weary heart, that such long years 

Has hoped and suffered, loved and lost, — \ 

How fond and faithful ! — Grod but knows i 

How much the mother-love has cost ! \ 

How calm and low ye're beating now ! - \ 

Life's pain and pathos all forgot! j 

I question if my younger heart 

Will bear a sweeter, sadder lot. . 



Sleep sweetly. Mother, laurel blooms 
Fill all the room with spicy breath ; 

I sit and watch you sleeping there. 

Wrapped in that semblance-guise of death. 



FERNS. 119 

Oh ! weary feet, and hands, and eyes ! 

Oh ! weary lips, and tired heart! 
Grod bless ye all, and grant that I 

May do one half so well a part I 



FEENS. 



A TRIBUTE TO THE LATE WIFE OF JUDGE HOLLAND, OP ] 

SALISBURY, MARYLAND. j 

i 

I 

What little things will take our hearts i 

Eack, back to the golden days, j 

To the tender scenes of the " Long Ago" i 

And the charm of the olden ways! ■ 
In pensive mood I strolled away, 

One rare, fair day in perfect June, 

Through emerald aisles of forest fanes, ; 

By sunny streamlets fair and boon. 

Scarce heeding where my footsteps led, 

I paused to catch the mock-bird's lay ; j 

And sat me down to rest the while i 

Beneath a cypress gnarled and gray. j 

Half-wistfuUy, I hearkened still I 

The mock-bird's wild and wildering strain, ; 
Eegretful that no ear save mine 

Might drink the sweet and glad refrain. 

The mock-bird flew to a distant bough, ; 

But the charm of his song remained, ; 

Till the flash of an azure wing swept by ; 

And the fettering spell unchained. 

Then I turned my gaze to the forest aisles, i 

The soft-hued carpet of yielding moss, i 

The dusky boughs all fringed with green, j 

Like emerald curtains laced across. 



120 GORSE AND SYRINQA. 

And my heart stood still, and my lips went pale, 

As my hand, with a sudden turn, 
Fell on the graceful, feathery frond 

Of a delicate " lady fern." 
And turning my gaze where my hand still lay, 

Softly caressing the fair frail thing, 
With a tremulous sigh my heart went back 

Where sweetest of memories cling. 

And I sat again, oh, friend ! by your hearth, 

With the charm of your gracious ways, 
Like attar of roses, clinging about 

The redolent, golden days. 
The redolent, golden days of yore ! 

How the fair, frail ferns bring back 
The touch of your hand, the sound of your voice, 

The kindness that knew no lack ! 

Oh, friend of the beautiful years agone ! 

Love's impotent memory yearns, 
With a passionate pain, for the olden days, 

When I look on the fair, frail ferns ! 
And I think me how often I gathered for you 

The beautiful, fair, frail things 
I found a-lurk where the rare June days 

Swooned out on their gossamer wings ! 

But that is past ! And I gather no more, 

In the soft June's gloaming haze, 
The beautiful ferns jon loved so well 

In the redolent, golden days. 
I had gathered a store of the fair, frail things, 

And " pressed" them with lovingest care. 
For the after-touch of your gentle hands, 

And the skill that was dainty as rare. 

And softly I thought, she will like them well, — 

They are fairer than e'er before! 
And daintiest dreams of the wild-wood dim 

Are hid in each tiny spore. 



MY NAMESAKE. 121 i 

But e'en while I smiled at the loving thought, 

A whisper came out of the day, i 

That the life of the friend of my loving thought ] 

Was silently wearing away ! 

And never again did I see your face, — 

You went with the Autumn gray, — 
And the loving thought was smitten with death, 

And the ferns were hidden away ! 
And I gather no more, — ah, never more ! — 

In the soft, sweet. Summer haze. 
The beautiful ferns you loved so well 

In the redolent, golden days. 

And I seldom speak of the rare, frail things, 

But love them more tenderly far 
Than I did in the redolent, golden days 

That lie in the past afar; 
For the tender charm of your gracious ways, 

Like the odor of roses, clings 
To the clustering memories shrined about 

The beautiful, fair, frail things. 

And never a time does my wistful gaze 

By sudden encounter find them near. 
That I do not turn, with a silent pain, 

To the fair, frail things you held so dear. 
And I long for the touch of your vanished hand, 

For the charm of your gracious ways, — 
For the sound of your voice, the light of your smile. 

And the redolent, golden days ! 
June, 1887. 



MY NAMESAKE. 



Oh ! bonny wee maid, such a bonny wee maid ! 

What wistful conjectures I fashion for thee, 
If the years of thy life tremble on to the verge 

Of womanhood's lovely and gracious degree I 



122 QORSE AND SYRINOA. \ 

1 

Such beautiful dreams, oh, thou winsome wee maid, ! 

I weave through the mesh of life's wildering maze ! 
Such beautiful hopes reach out from my heart, 

Above the white stretch of thy gold-broidered days! 

And up through the aisles of the beautiful years 

Softly, in fancy, thy footsteps 1 hear ; < 

And the breath of a song, that is gladsome and sweet, ■ 

Eises and falls on my listening ear ; 

And a prayer that is sweet with its pathos of pain j 

Waits at the threshold of wakening day, i 

And walks through the dew, and the heat, and the 1 

cold, ! 

To the quieting hush of its evening>ay ; \ 

i 

And winds all the wealth of its lingering love ■ 

Wistfully, tenderly, through thy young years, j 

Setting the seal of its infinite trust ! 

Over the seal of its pain and its tears ; \ 

Wistfully, tenderly, bonny wee maid, i 

Oft do I wonder what fate shall be thine; ' 

Wearing my name, will thy tender feet stray > 

Down through the paths that have echoed to mine? ' 

Wearing my name, shall thy life be the same ? | 

Ah! only the Father knows how it may be! ■ 
Could I but say, I would take out the thorns 

And leave but the flowers and sunshine for thee. ; 

Could I but say; but the Father knows best! j 

Dear little Namesake, I leave thee to Him ; \ 
Leadeth He thou where the sunlight is clear, 

Or leadeth He thou where the pathway is dim ! 

March, 1887. I 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

O GIFTED son of a gifted land ; 

O Child of the fair and deathless name! 
The sea is vast, and the earth is wide. 

And the years have carved on the heights of fame 



LAVENDER. 123 

Full many a dream of the minstrel heart, 

Full many a deed of the hero soul ; 
But the fairest niche of the golden heights 

Unfolds on its mystic, lambent scroll 
Thy name, O gifted Howard Payne ! 

"Home, Sweet Home!" Ah! the earth, it is wide. 
But the beautiful song hath compassed its sphere ! 

The sea, it is vast, but its billows have caught 
The echoed refrain of the melody dear! 

"Home, Sweet Home!" Ah! the many may live 
In the world's renown for centuries long; 

But the heart of the world shrines deathless for aye 



The minstrel sweet, and his deathless song; 
The minstrel loved, — John Howard Payne 



The East hath its records of ancient renown, 

The North hath its legends, the South hath its crest, 
But the heart of the world is stirred by the song 

That sprang from the soul of a son of the West ! 
And the East, and the North, and the South have 
caught 

The wonderful charm of the melody sweet; 
And the wreath of the world encircles the brow, 

And the heart of the world is laid at the feet 
Of our own loved John Howard Payne 1 



LAVENDER 



Naught is more bright than the Eose, I ween, — 

Sweet-hearted queen of the realm of flowers ! 
Naught is more fair than the Lily's sheen, 

Sown through the odor of eglantine bowers ! 
But sweeter to me than the Eose in its bloom, 

And fairer than Lily of pearliest sheen. 
Is one quaint flower, whose subtile perfume 

Comes like the odor of censers unseen, — 
The quaint, shy, plain-robed Lavender! 



124 QORSE AND STRING A. 

I press the Eose to my loving lips, 

And lingering wait where the Lily stands ; 

But I fold away the odorous slips i 

Of lavender-bloom with tenderest hands. 

The odor of roses is wafted away ; ; 

The shimmer of lilies lies prone at my feet; , 
But the heart of the Summer still throbs 'neath the sway | 

Of a subtile aroma than roses more sweet, — I 

The subtile aroma of Lavender. ] 

Would you know the charm of the plain-robed flow'r? ! 

Would you learn the spell of its subtile scent ? ! 

Go with me back to my childhood's hour, ' 

And the home where its morning was spent ! | 

And there in a garden old-fashioned, but fair, j 

With the quaint old flowers of quaint old times, -i 

Mid the odor of roses and lily-blooms rare 1 

From the old-fashioned gardens of old-land climes, j 

We'll cull gray slips of Lavender. j 

And while we gather the odorous stems, 1 

And tie with wisps of the scented thyme, 
I'll tell why, dearer than Flora's best gems, 

I hold this plant of our sterner clime. 
My mother loved, in the far, fair then, 

This plain-robed flow'r with the violet crest; 
And the fairest things to my childish ken 

Were the linen-draw'rs and the household chest. 
With theix faint, sweet breath of Lavender. 

And thus it is, though I love full well 

The grandest bloom that our Grod hath made, — 
The sunniest flower in the sylvan dell 

And the palest bud in the wild-wood shade, — 
I closer hold, like an honored guest 

Or a friend beloved for his winsome ways, 
This plain-robed flower with the violet crest. 

That my mother loved in her glad, young days, — 
This quaint, shy, plain-robed Lavender ! 

October 7, 1887. 



MYRTLE AND ROSES. 



MYETLE AJSTD EOSES. j 

\ 

Oh ! Light of my Life ! wake, wake from thy sleep, ] 

Ere the Orient gateway uncloses ! ; 

I'm waiting for thee where the dews are asteep, | 

In the garden of Myrtle and Eoses ! '. 

I'll crown thee with myrtle, and lay on thy breast. 

The fragrance of roses dew-weighted ; 

And the breath of the dawn, at its purest and best, | 

Shall sweeten the chalice love-freighted. '< 

Oh ! Light of my Life ! I await thee, my Queen ! 

Haste, haste, while the Day-Dawn reposes '■ 
On cushions of pearl, that would vie with the sheen 

Of the garden of Myrtle and Eoses ! ; 

Oh ! Light of my Life ! Thou art come, thou art come ! : 

And the days may go on to their closes ; \ 

For the sweetness of life has reached to its sum I 

In the garden of Myrtle and Eoses ! I 

1887. i 



THE MYSTEEY OF WOMAN'S LOYE. 

LUCID argon's soliloquy UPON THE SAME. 

" Since the time when the grand old Universe first lifted, 
From the dateless emptiness of Chaos' night, 
Her glorious face, full-bathed with fulgency divine, 

11 125 



126 MYRTLE AND ROSES. i 

And took her place, by primal right, in the whirling \ 

hosts of spheric worlds, — 
Ere yet the perfume of her balmy breath i 

Was freighted with the subtile dews of death, — ■ 

Behold ! co-natal with the mystery of woman, came 
The double mystery of woman's love ! 
And years on years have passed away, engulfing, 
As they speed their flight, the pride and pomp of 
Earthly things, — the very life of nations, and ] 

The wrecks of drowning worlds ! ! 

"And yet 
The mystery lives, — unsolved, and still unsolvable 
By mortal sage, or wizard ken ! 

Then, why should I, poor weakling, seek to try ; 

To ravel out the riddle of the Sphinx? i 

Faugh ! no more I'll vex my soul with why or where- I 

fore of the case! i 

" If Lady Blanche can find in that rough boor | 

"Wherewith to feed her heart's desire, — wherewith I 

To crown her life with plenitude of joy, , 

Then I'll no more of woman ! Faugh ! 1 

And still, the thought repeats itself! — Ah me! \ 

What strange perversity of taste!" j 

Voice outside, singing, — ] 

" Oh ! a man is never so low — so low 

In the ranks of power, or pride, I ween, 
So homely of face, or so graceless of limb. 

So boorish of manner, or voice, or mien, — ^ 

So steeped in the slums of folly and sin, j 

So lost to all virtue and honorable will, ] 

But the soft white arms and sweet warm lips ^ 

Of some womanly woman reach him still ! 

"And a man is never so high — so hiaih : 

On the stainless heights of honor and fame, 1 

So inaccessible in manner or mien. 

So regal in purse, or so royal of name, 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 127 

So compassed about by the lofty and wise, 
Or so wise himself in all knowledge rare, 

But the soft white arms and sweet warm lips 
Of some womanly woman reach him there !" 

Singing ceases as Lady Blanche and Ingram Stayle 
appear, walking hand in hand in the garden below. 
Lucio catches sight of them and resumes his soliloquy : 

" Ay, so it seems ! The song was but the inspiration of 

my thought. 
Or, my thought was but the inspiration of the song ! 
A man is never quite so low — be his status what it may — 
But the soft arms and sweet lips of some woman reach 

him; 
As witness the peerless Blanche! She, upon whose 

brow 
A coronet might rest, and not seem out of place ; 
She lets her white hand rest within the goatherd's 

vulgar clasp ! 

* "She stoops to lavish kisses 

On the low-bred lips of Ingram Stayle! 
And watches tenderly his every glance and smile ; 
And drinks his every word, as if 'twere draught of 

honey-dew. 
Oh ! strange perversity of woman's taste ! 
Oh ! mystery of mysteries ! — Woman's love !" 

Blanche and Ingram pause by the Azaleas, and their 
conversation becomes audible to Lucio, who jealously 
regards them, himself unseen. 

Ingram. — " Oh ! Lady Blanche, I think there must be 

some mistake ; 
You laugh at me ! 'Tis but a cruel jest ! 
And yet, your hands, and lips, and eyes are kind ! 
You love me ! — me ! — The goatherd ! — Ingram Stayle. 
Say it again, my Lady Blanche. They say my brain is 

dull. 



128 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

But my heart is like a piece of tinder: quick to kindle 

into flame. 
But, if 'tis jest, oh ! take your hand away from mine ! 
And turn your eyes another way. Be cold and stern, 
And help me to forget that e'er your lips touched mine! 

" I never dared to lift my eyes so high. I thought 
That Lucio would seek and win so great a prize, 
And, scarce I thought, he matched your beauty and 

your grace. 
And now you tell me Lucio had never thought of 

yours ; 
That all your glad young heart, your rich warm love, 
Is given to Ingram Stayle, the goatherd of the hills ! 
I fear me 'tis a dream, — and I shall wake, ere long, 
To find the solid earth aslip beneath my feet!" 

Voice singing beyond the garden wall, — 

" Oh ! Love never heeds be he high or low ; 

And Love never asks is he wise and great ; 
For Love never cares where the breezes blow/. 

And Love never recks either space or date. 

"And he goes his way with a flirt and a flout. 
And laughs to derision the kindliest lore 

That Eeason can bring from her strong redoubt 
To fetter the count of his vagrant score ; 

" For he is a vagrant, — a ruthless bandit, 

And closely exacts he each pitiful dole, 
Although he is king, every fibre and whit, 

And his kingdom is measured from pole unto pole. 

'' Ay, Love never heeds be he high or low ; 

And Love never asks is he wise and great ; 
For Love never cares where the breezes blow, 

And Love never recks either space or date.'* 

(Sound of singing dies away, and Lady Blanche takes 
up the conversation where Ingram paused.) 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 129 

"Ah! Ingram, you do not understand a woman, or a 
woman's love ! 

Why should you fear to trust the truth of what I say ? 

Could I, Blanche Yelpeau, seek to jest upon so delicate 
a theme? 

And wherefore should I simulate a love I do not feel ? 

And why forget my woman's pride, and tell it you, un- 
asked, if 'twere not really so ? 

Methinks there are not many maids who thus would 
risk 

Their woman's delicacy and pride ; . 

For well I know how grave a thing it seems, 

And how rarely Fate is ever kind to her who so forgets 
herself. 

" We will not talk of Lucio : he's been my friend for 

many years ; 
As such I hope to claim him, for many years to come. 
He's noble, generous, and true of heart. 
And wise beyond the average ken of average man ; 
And he is fair to look upon, — of noble carriage and 

physique. 
But, as the unseen songster told us in his mocking lay, 
Love ever chooses his own way ; and, despot that he is, 
E'er makes his haughtiest subjects but vassals to his 

will." 

Ingram. — " Oh ! Blanche, forgive me that I feared to 
trust. 
At first, so sweet and wildering a tale ! 
The house of Yelpeau holds so high a place 
Within the garnered archives of the land, 
'Twere condescension great, and sweet as strange, 
That Blanche, the one fair daughter of its Lord, 
Should give the sunshine of her love to bless the life of 
Ingram Stayle ! 

" But stay, my Sweet, I'll doubt it never more ! 
And they who've deigned me scarce a glance 
Shall wake to find me yet their honest peer, — 
If not in nobleness of blood and birth, 

11* 



130 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

By the nobler exercise of nobleness acquired ; 

For I will scale the burnished heights, whose rugged 

steeps 
Give back no echo to a craven, or disloyal step. 
And I will wrest from knowledge and from Fortune's 

store 
Full recompense for all the barren past. 
And I will fill my life with plenitude 
Of all that makes a man the peer of any man ; 
For, have I not the stimulus ? — the guerdon of your 

love, 
And I would stand with you, my Lady Blanche, 
Upon the eminency of jowv own pure life, 
^ot drag you to the homeliness and barrenness of mine. 

" I will not turn me back and grieve o'er barren days,— 

They're gone, — they shall not clog the present with 
their meagreness of worth. 

For in the restless workings of my once dull brain 

Are kindled fires that only plenitude of lore can feed ; 

And crystal thoughts are merging into high resolves, 

Whose birthright is the royal base and keystone of the 
soul. 

And all that other men have done by noble and heroic 
toil, 

And all that other souls have won by masterful en- 
deavor. 

The scion of the soil, the goatherd of the hills, 

Shall seek to do and win. 

" And toil shall lose its sense of toil in nobleness of doing ; 
Endeavor lose its sense of strain in nobleness of trying. 
And I shall stand beside you. Sweet, some day with 

fitter presence. 
Till then, adieu! Ambition, honor, pride, and love, — 
All brought forth at one wildering, mystic birth, — 
Eise up in masterful protest, and bid me 
Leave you in untrammelled state ; 
Nor dare to take the nectar of your love 
Till I have fitter altar for the rare and sweet libation !" 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 131 

Lady Blanche. — " He is gone ! and I, — how shall I 
wait, alone, 
The slow unfolding of the long and weary years 
That keep him from my lonely, yearning heart! 
And will he win the contest where so many fail? 
Or will he, in the broad arena's glare, 
In deathly pain and mortal weakness fall? 
Or will he simply fail and live to wear the scars 
And tardy-healing wounds of a hard, unequal fight?" 

Yoice singing beyond the wall, — 

" Omnia vincit amor, sweet Blanche, 

The adage is true as the theme is old ; 
And unequal strife gives the victory zest, 

As crucible fires give the lustre to gold. 
And victory waits for the loyal and brave 

Who patiently toil for a noble end ; 
But scars and wounds are legitimate spoils. 

And the palm and the cypress always blend!" 



Blanche. — 

" Cease, oh ! unseen songster, cease ! 

And let me take your wildering strain. 
And weave athrough its liquid mesh 

The sweetness of a new refrain. 
For come he back with victory's palm, 

Or failure's symbol dark and stern, 
Aflush with hope, or wan with toil, 

It matters not, so he return ! 



" If triumph wait his every deed. 

If shame and pain disaster bring, 
Applauded or disdained by all, 

I hold him still my chosen king. 
And if the years be swift or slow, 

If dull or bright their watch-fires burn. 
Where'er he goes, whate'er he does, 

It matters not, so he return!" 



132 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Fair Lady Blanche is left to walk the garden pathways 

all alone ; 
For Lucio, her childhood's friend, the would-be lover of 

her girlhood's prime, 
Had sought forgetfulness beyond the seas 
Ere Ingram Stayle had bidden her adieu. 
The years go on their swift but noiseless way, — 
'No message comes from Ingram Stayle ; he said 
'Twere better so, and she gave silent acquiescing. 
The years speed on ; a shadow folds its sombre wings 
Above the house of Yelpeau. 
The Lady Blanche is left alone, in very truth and deed, 

alone ! 
For the stately Lord of Yelpeau lies beneath the chapel 

altar. 
And the Lady Blanche seeks not to stray 
Beyond the precincts of her own domain. 
Ambition's fever pulses never fret 
The soft sereneness of her lonely hours ; 
And the world's eclat or dissonance 
Breaks not the quiet tenor of her way; 
She dwells within her stately walls, 
Scarce less secluded than a cloistered nun. 
Her thoughts and dreams are all of Ingram Stayle, — 
" Where toils he through the long and weary day ? 
Where rests he when the toilsome day is o'er? 
How fares he in the fight for fame and power?" 

If she had been less lonely in her grief. 

Had felt the outside pulses of debate. 

Some whisper from the world's applauding lips 

Would certainly have told her how he fared. 

For, if no other e'er had guessed, or sought 

To trace the strange identity of name. 

Most certainly the prescience of her own fond heart 

Would have stamped with flawless certainty the fact 

That the world-famed Marshal and her lover were the 

same ; 
For every day fresh laurels wove to deck his noble brow, 
And every lip was fain to swell the gallant soldier'^ 

praise. 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 133 

And royally he won his fame, — no braver soldier I 

Ever faced the bullets of a valiant foe ; ! 

And to the courage of the hero's soul ' 

He joined the tenderness of woman's love. \ 

No soldier in the gallant ranks but felt the strong ] 

Magnetic cord that bound their leader to his men. i 

He seemed to bear a charmed life, — no bullet scathed ' 

His noble and commanding form, i 

Although he led his gallant men amid the crash ! 

Of screaming shells and flying balls, i 

Himself within the thickest of the fight. ' 

And high his sovereign ranked his noble worth, | 

His matchless prowess, and his dexterous skill ; i 

And gratefully he laid across the breast that never | 

quailed i 

The ensigns of his kingly confidence. j 

\ 

And now the war is over ; full many a gallant heart j 

Poured out its life upon the field of strife ; I 

But some were left ; and they, war-worn, have turned \ 

to seek i 

The hearts and homes that blessed them ere the war. I 

Among them comes the gallant Marshal Stayle, j 

The suave and polished courtier and savant ; { 
He comes to seek the sunshine of his native hills, — 

To find if, through the silence of the years, ; 

The Lady Blanche remembers still. j 



And as he nears the strangely quiet spot, j 

The face that never blanched at foeman's steel 1 

Grows strangely white about the bearded lips ; 
The form that never blenched in thickest of the fight ; 

Seems weak and trembling, as with strange affright, — i 

" What if the Lady Blanche has long ago i 

Eepented of her condescension rash? ! 

And what if Lucio has plucked the flower ) 

I might have gathered long ago ? 1 

The thought is madness ! Let me wait, and still j 

This strange unsteadiness of heart and hand. | 

If I should find it so, of what avail j 

Will be fame's plaudits and eclat ?" 



134 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

And wistfully he views the ensigns on his breast, 
And hesitates to prove — brave soldier though he be — 
The truth or falseness of his fear. 

Yoices of singers out of sight break in upon his 
musings, singing, half mockingly, — 

" Oh ! a woman's love is a sun that draws 

The heart of the world to her warm, red lips ! 
Back from the carnage of battle-fields. 

Back from the drowning of sinking ships, 
Back from the very gates of death, — 
Golden and warm through the darkness of pain, — 

Golden and warm through the silence of years, — 
Back to the shield of her passionate breast 

From farthermost haunts of the hemispheres, — 
From the very gates and jaws of death! 

" Oh! fever of pain and fret of years. 

Drown out, drown out on her fair, fond breast ! 
The largess of hope and the fulness of fame 

What shall they bring if they bring not rest? 
Rest and the ultimate wonder of bliss? 
Thrall of the past, shall it hold thee now? 

Oh, hero soul of a hundred tales ! 
Ha, ha! my mates! laugh aloud, my mates, 

At the soldier brave who quakes and quails 
To seek the wine of a woman's kiss !" 

Singing dies away, and Ingram, a dusky flush re- 
placing the pallor on his brow, stands wistfully yet a 
moment's space. 

Anon, he braces every nerve, and quickly scales 

The garden wall as erst he did in boyish days. 

And lo ! beneath the self-same tree, where stood they 

When he bade Blanche Yelpeau stern adieu. 

He sees her standing pensively, and standing all alone ! 

And swift the color comes and goes upon his face, and 

quick he speeds 
To prove the truth or falseness of his fear. 
Nor heeds he that by the fount he passes, 
A figure, strangely lingering, marks his eager haste. 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 135 

Poor Lucio ! he fain would walk once more 

Amid the unforgotten scenes of youth ! 

And wistfully he longs to hear a welcoming 

From Lady Blanche, the playmate of his boyhood's 

days. 
But, with a certain diffidence, he lingers by the way. 
He hath not yet discerned that with his own return 
The irony of Fate hath brought the coming-home 
Of Ingram Stayle, the quondam goatherd of the hills. 

And so he lingers by the fount, his vision still 

Engrossed by that still figure 'neath the trees; 

And musingl}^ he mutters, half aloud, 

" Does Lucio, whose restless spirit took his feet 

To wander where unhome-like shadows brood, 

Return to find Blanche Yelpeau still unwed? 

Methinks her cheeks are wanner than they were of yore. 

And what shall mean the sadness of her mien? 

The wistful drooping of her wine-red lips, 

The mournful shadows in her glorious eyes? 

And where is Ingram Stayle ? Is he amenable for this ? 

Ah ! would that I might chase the shadows from her 

eyes 
And paint the rose-leaf bloom once more upon her 

cheeks ! 

" But what is this ? What strange commotion stirs 
The heart-beat of the town ? The pulsing tremor of 

the air 
Seems overcharged with wildest exultation ! 
And who is he that comes, so like a ' conquering hero,' 
Along the old, familiar garden path? 
I know him not; but, on his breast I see 
The sign and symbol of his lofty rank. 
And royally he bears him, as if he were inured 
To princely praise and kingly commendation. 

"But what hath brought this princely soldier here? 
Lord Yelpeau sleeps beneath the Chapel altar-stone. 
And only Lady Blanche is left, sole scion of the lordly 
house. 



136 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

What brings him here ? And now he's reached her side 
And kneels, in courtly homage, at her feet. 
(While I, her playmate, not yet have even dared 
To seek a word of greeting, after all these weary years.) 
And she, — the startled look fades swiftly from her ashen 

face. 
A wondrous rapture dissipates the shadow from her 

brow, 
Irradiates and warms her lips, and shines within her 

eyes. 
And lo ! she stoops, and lays her mouth — her sweet, 

warm mouth — 
Upon his bearded lips; her fair white arms 
Cling tenderly about his neck. 

" What means it ? Can it be ? " 



Yoices in the distance, calling, entreatingly, — 

" Oh ! Lucio, Lucio, turn thee away ! 

Seek thou no further the truth to explain ; 
Over the heart of the radiant day 

Presses the weight of an infinite pain, — 
Shadow for sunshine, failure for hope, 

Life's cypress and yew for its myrtle and bay, 
Its perilous steeps for its cool, verdant slope, — 

Oh ! Lucio, Lucio, turn thee away ! 

" Oh ! Lucio, Lucio, haste thee away ! 

Destiny wounds with such ruthless delight ! 
Why shouldst thou meet her assailance half-way? 

Why leave thy heart at her cruel despite? 
Over the past draw a luminous veil ; 

Out through the future and up through the day 
Carry thy soul like a consecrate grail ; 

Oh! Lucio, Lucio, haste thee away!" 

Lucio. — 

" Oh ! sibylline minstrels, away, — speed away I 
Cometh too late what thy ken would declare ! 
And better the night that shall come as it may 
Than the torturing dream of a stealthy despair. 



THE MYSTERY OF WOMAN'S LOVE. 137 

" Better the scalpel, the dagger, the lead, 

Than slow-working poison asteep in the veins ! 

Better the sorrow that strikes the heart dead, 
Than menace, and doubt, and corroding of chains ! 

" Better to find what the Fates have in store ; 

Better to learn what the years have ordained ; 
Than wait for the light that shall come never more ; 

And the chalice of bliss that shall never be drained. 

" Too late to turn back now ! — I must know ! — Can it 
be?— 

The very thought sets all my pulses in a feverish 
whirl, — 

And yet the world-famed Marshal whose exploits 

Have shown the world what dauntless courage is, 

Bears just the self-same name that Ingram's father 
gave to him. 

And, peradventure, 'tis the very same. 

I'll venture toward the hall unheedfuUy, 

And show a well-assimulated ignorance 

Of what my wildered eyes have just now seen. 

They see me now, and decorously stand apart ; 

Blanche fails to recognize the playmate of her child- 
hood. 

And well she may ; for alien suns have browned, 

And alien winds have tanned, the bojash face of yore; 

And a tawny beard hath wrought still greater change 
of mien." 

Lucio Arcon's eager steps soon bring him 
Where the startled lovers waiting, stand. 
And yet, Blanche Yelpeau's questioning eyes give forth 
No subtile gleam of recognizing light. 
Lucio smiles, — a wistful, disapi^ointed smile, — 
" Has Lady Blanche forgotten, quite, the playmate 
Of her fair and guileless childhood's years ? 
And has she ne'er a greeting for the friend 
Of other days? No welcome, kind and true, 
To glad the heart, and tinge with joy, Lucio Arcon's 
coming home ?" 

12 



138 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

This brings the light of recognition to her eyes ; ; 

And eagerly she puts her little hand in his; \ 

Her eyes are glad ; and joyously her lips ' 

Frame words of kindliest welcoming. ' 

Then, with a strange, new pride, — a sweet assumption j 

all her own, — ' 

She lays, confidingly, her shapely hand \ 

Upon the decorated breast of him \ 

Who stands, with martial dignity, beside her, ; 

And says, a soft, exultant tremor in her voice, \ 

*' Ah ! Lucio, have you forgotten quite j 
This friend we used to know in former years? 

The Ingram Stayle we used to know now stands j 

Before us ; and we call him — Marshal Stayle /" ) 

The two men face each other in a flash ! '■ 

And Ingram, who has learned to win and yet i 

Not hold himself in exultation o'er a vanquished foe, 

Is first to speak, — is first to offer friendship's sign. 

And Lucio Arcon's noble soul cannot resist 

The strange commingling of humility ] 

And deprecating magnanimity | 

That marks his mien and cadences his words. j 

He clasps his hand, while from his passionate heart 

Slow fades the sense of injury which has grown 

And festered in his secret soul. 

The man he once despised is worthy of no blame, — I 

Thrice worthy seems, instead, to wear the prize ] 

Fate never meant that he should win and wear. j 

He yields at last to Destiny's decree; ! 

Hope dies, and life becomes a bleak and barren waste. \ 

But Blanche must never know; and so he smiles i 
And speaks of other things. 

And presently, ' 
Presuming on the intimacy of other years, 

Anticipates the secret she'd reveal, i 

And even antedates the nuptual gratulations. : 

And then he turns and leaves them to their own enrap- ] 

tured selves. I 
And we will be as generous and as decorous as he, — 



MIZPAH. 139 

Eemembering that not always 

Doth the hand of Fate ordain 
Love shall win a happy guerdon 

Even after years of pain. 
That some must walk in shadow, 

While for others burns the sheen ; 
Life hath aye its deeps and shallows, 

And we may not change the scene. 
1886. 



MIZPAH. 



The world is wide, Mignone, and many years 
May fold their garnered shade and sheen 
Between us ere our lives shall meet, 
And flow in one harmonious blending 
Of all that makes life beautiful and blest, — 
That mystic stream of life, whose lucent waves 
Shall flow in undivided peacefulness. 
Please God, through pastures green. 
And sunny fields of goodly fruits, 
And plenitude of flowers. 

What lies before us, none of us may know ; 

We make our plans to-day, and feed our hopes 

With dreams of swift fruition ; 

To-morrow comes, too oft, alas ! with wreck and ruin 

in its train ; 
And hope, too oft, has many a sorrowful defeat ! 
But while the drifting years shall bring 
Their "shifting scenes of time and space" 
To fold between our waiting hearts, 
Love spans the separating years and miles 
With bridge of mystic gold. 
And writes above the gleaming archway in letterings 

of living light 
The mystic legend, — " Mizpah ;'^ 
While deep within the loyal heart 
The sweeter rendering nestles close, 
Too dear for careless reading. 



140 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Drift on, sweet years ; if swift, or slow, ye take your 

noiseless flight, 
"What matters it? " In the shadow standeth G-od 
Keeping watch above His own !" 
And to His fond care, and sheltering love, 
I leave my all of life, and life's dear loveliness. 
If slow the years between us grow. 
If wide, Mignone, the separating miles shall lie, 
Love spans, the while, all time and space 
With bridge of mystic gold. 
Above whose gleaming archway shines. 
In letterings of lucent light. 

The mystic legend " Mizpah !" 

1882. 



CEYSTALLmE. 



Beautiful Crj^stalline, golden-haired Crystalline, 

Wandered away from my heart one day ; 
Taking with her all life's sunshine and brightness, 
. Leaving me only the sable and gray ! 

Gloriously bright were the dreams of the future, 
Warmed by the light of her marvellous smile ; 

Fair were the castles we built in the mid-air, 
Eadiant the hopes we cherished the while. 

Costly and fair were the ships that we freighted 
Deep with the beauty and wealth of the heart; 

G-allant and strong were their canvas and timber, 
True was their compass, and faithful their chart. 

Fair were the breezes that beckoned them seaward; 

Blue were the billows that measured their flight; 
Soft was the sunshine that gilded their pennons; 

Golden the distance that hid them from sight. 



CRYSTALLINE. 141 

But the dreams were hut dreams of life's golden future ; 

For the light of her smile was withdrawn ; 
The castles we built in the air fell in ruins, 

Their grandeur, and beauty, and lights all gone. 

The fair ships we freighted with such costly treasures, 
And sent them a-seek for the mystical port, 

Are lying, to-night, all mastless and sailless, 

Down, down where the mermaids are holding their 
court ; 

For the languorous breeze turned to fiercest tornado, 
The azure waves rocked 'neath the tempest's despite, 

The sunshine dropped from the fluttering pennons, 
The golden horizon to pitiless night, 

And the beautiful ships went down in the tempest, 
All, all was engulfed in the pitiless sea ! 

Oh ! Crystalline, Crystalline, deepest despairing 
Fell with the tempest that swept thee from me ! 

Come back to my heart, my sunlight, my treasure, 
My beautiful pearl, my fair Crystalline ; 

I've searched the world o'er in my heart-stricken 
sorrow 
For a face, a form, and a smile like thine ; 

But the sea has no pearl of such marvellous beauty. 
The earth hides no gem in its richest mine, 

So pure as the soul of my golden-haired treasure, 
My beautiful one, my lost Crystalline ! 



12* 



142 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 



MIEBEL. 

I HAVE them all, Mirbel, — your letters old, 
From the first wee note to the pitiful last, 
When you bade me £^ood-by and went away; 
So far, so far awaj^, I could not find 
My way across the dreary miles to touch 
Your hand once more. 

You said that you would come ; 
And I waited long, and watched the winding road 
That lay, like some great serpent, sleeping in the sun. 
But you came not; and the glad days grew dark, 
And heavy with unuttered pain. And yet 
Friends came, with smiling lips and shining eyes, 
And said the passing days were very fair. 






And, so I ween they were ; for, looking forth, 

I saw the sunlight lying, dazzling bright, 

Like a cloth of gold, upon the quiet fields; 

And the shining arch of sapphirine light 

Drooped lovingly above the happy trees. 

And touched the stream with flecks of tremblins: blue. 



'to 



But over all the royal, radiant days 

A wraith-like shadow, cold as breath of Fate, 

Pressed closely on their golden sheen ; and the hours 

Crept by with leaden feet. The breath of song 

And laughter's sound fell wearily upon my ear. 

The work went on with drear, mechanic skill, 

With not one duty slurred, or put aside. 

Save that, perhaps, which touched myself alone. 

I think I did not feel the weight of other cares ; 
And still the days went by, with heavier weight 



MIRBEL. 143 

I 

Of growing time, till ages seemed to fold away 

The unrewarded waiting of that time. i 

And still, — and still I waited, watching still ] 

(E'en when I knew, too well, you would not come) 

The white road winding, lengthening out of sight. ; 

What touch of Fate held back your steps ? 
Had Fate not done enough to mar the sweetness of my ! 

life ; 
And cloud the golden brightness of its happy sky? 

If you had only come, and held once more \ 

My strengthless fingers within your own, , 

I think I should be stronger now ; instead, j 

I sit, to-night, too weak and tired to pray ; 

(Save with unmoving lips) the old fond prayer, ; 
Whose deathless faith ran trembling through the years, '■ 

And guards them still with love's undying truth. j 

One by one I lay your letters on my lap 

With trembling hands, but tired, unweeping eyes. , 

I do not read them o'er, — no need of that ; : 

Their words are stamped, in never-fading lines, \ 

Upon the hidden tablets of the heart. ' 

I touch them tenderly, as one might hold j 

A snow-white birdling that some ruthless hand ' 

Had smitten with untimely death. I 

I know that in the folds of one 

Your pictured face lies hidden, and yet j 

I do not open even that ; for to-night 1 

I could not bear the thoughts that it would bring. ! 
The grave, sad eyes would search me through and j 

through ; j 

And well, too well, remember I how once \ 
They read my inmost soul : I clasp my hands 
Across my eyes, and murmur, while my breath 

Comes fast, they must not, must not read me now ! = 

A veil must drop its pitying folds ; 

Between my heart and thine. I would not lift ! 
My pleading face one moment toward your distant j 

home. 



144 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

If you should know and grieve because of it ; 
I would not touch your dear, true hand, if mine 
Should tremble in its clasp, and thus bring pain to you. 

But these old letters, — ah ! who will know 
If heavier weight of pain shall press 
Upon my heart whene'er I hold them thus ? 
And if a few hot tears shall fall, and blur 
The tracings of your hand, what eye will know ? 
What human heart will be the wiser for it? 
Not one, not one; and so I hold them still 
Love's chiefest treasures, shrined for aye and aye 
With tenderest breath of silent prayer. 

And if the time should ever come, with wistful 
Thoughts of days long past, — and if your heart 
Should ever mourn the old surrender of my love, — 
Stretch out your hand across the years, and know 
And feel it still your own. G-od pity me ! 
What have I said ? The drifting years must be 
Too kind to mar the sweetness of your life, 
And cloud the brightness of its happy sky ! 

For me, for me it does not matter now ! 

I only count the sweet days, bright and fair. 

That bathe your brow with waves of softer light, 

And touch your lips with curves of happier smiles; 

And sweet, Mirbel, j^our life will be if 

Pra^^ers of mine can aught avail. No day is born 

That does not wake the old, fond prayer for you; 

No night unfurls its star-bestudded plumes 

That does not hold in tender plenitude 

Love's undivided benisons for you. 

And thus 'twill ever be, Mirbel, while years 

Pass on with slow, unechoing feet, 

And time for me shall be no more, no more ! 

Good-by, Mirbel, a long good-by ! How dark 

And wearily the days grow into years. 

And mock me with their drear, unmeasured waste ! 

But — these old letters ! — nor time nor space shall 



OOTT BET MIT DIE. 145 

Gulf them in Fate's cold and fathomless abyss ! 
I will not give them up; and who will know, 
Or dare to chide or taunt me if they knew? 
They're mine, all mine; no mandate cold of Fate 
Shall wrest them from me (since you have not) 
And doom them to annihilation's grave. 



GOTT BEI MIT DIE. j 

A WOMAN stood by the castled Rhine, 

In the fond, old German Land of Love, , 

One wild, sweet day, when the purple vine 

Hung golden-ripe on the hills above, — 
She stood and watched, with quivering lips, 

While away and onward, out of sight, 
A snow-white shallop, amid the ships, 1 

With fluttering pennons stirred the light, — : 

She stood and watched, with sorrowing eyes, — ! 

The blue waves darkled into night, | 

The sun-born glory of the skies | 

Grew purpling splendor on the height; j 

One face turned landward held her gaze, ; 

And earth and waves grew strangely drear, ■ 

While with white lips she softly breathed, 

Good-by, Mignone,— (^o« Bei Mitt Der ! 

The snow-winged shallop went its way ; ' 

The golden heart of the purple vine i 

Fell apart in the blaze of day i 

And stained the hills with its crimson wine. ; 

Again, by the banks of the castled Rhine, ■ 

The woman stood 'neath the sunset skies, j 

In the soft sweet hush of the day's decline, ; 

And watched the waves with sorrowing eyes ; \ 

And across their purpling splendor fell j 

The shadow of a great despair : I 

The far-off moan of a funereal bell j 

Pulsed through the corridors of air. i 



146 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Alas ! for the quest of the breaking heart ! 

The shallop lies 'neath the billows drear ! 
And a wordless pain is the old fond prayer, 

Good-by, Mignone, — Gott Bei Mit Der! 
1876. 



SELMA, MY QUEEK 

Oh ! the world is wide, and the world is cold ! 

But the days are bound with a chain of gold. 

And gleams of amethystine sheen 

Glow here and there the links between, — 

The days wherein my soul stood by 

And fed its hunger from thine eye, — 

Stolen food from the garnered store 

M}^ famished lips will touch no more, — 

No more this side of heaven, Selma, my queen 

Happier lips were born to bless thee, 

Happier fingers to caress thee. 

And another heart more blest than mine 

Has found its sheltering-place in thine ; 

And where thou walkest day by day 

Happier feet than mine will stray ; 

And other eyes will softly shine 

Beneath the winsome light of thine; 

But / would die for thee, Selma, my queen ! 

Oh ! the world is wide, and the world is cold ! 

And the days have lost their vesture of gold. 

I would die for thee? Oh! Selma, my queen, 

Deeper than this is the love, I ween, 

That through all sorrow and blight and pain, 

All loss, all lack of joy or of gain, 

Can silently stand 'mid the ruin and woe 

And whisper the sweet words, tender and low, 

I could live for thee, Selma, my queen ! 



IN MEMORY EVER DEAR. 147 

Oh ! the world is wide and the world is cold ! 
And the days have lost their vesture of gold, — 
The beautiful days that will come no more! 
But labor and love are never o'er. 
Over the future, as over the past, 
Merciful silence will settle at last ; 
And only God and my heart shall know 
The passion and pain, the loss and the woe, 
That I will bear for thee, Selma, my queen ! 



IN MEMOEY EYEE DEAE. 

Across the mist-crowned hills of day, 
Adown the dusky vales of night, 

The year goes on its noiseless way. 
With sandaled feet and robes of light, 

And flings athwart the hill-tops gray 
A tender flush of opal sheen, 

And folds the valley shades away 
With tissue-gleams of gold between. 

I know all this ; the radiant skies. 
The golden glory of the year, 

I see no more with lover's eyes. 
But hold in mem'jy ever dear. 

Each golden gleam that marks the year 
Akin to those I loved of yore. 

The fair, white years so sadly dear, 
No after-glow can gild them o'er. 

I hold it best that Memory keeps 
Her tender watch above the years ; 

And for the heart that seldom reaps 
The solace sweet of healing tears, 



148 MYRTLE AND ROSES. \ 

\ 

Some tenderness from out the past i 

Walks softly through the clouded days ; j 
Some fair, sweet star that to the last 

Sheds o'er life's path its tender rays. \ 

I catch myself with wistful eyes ] 

Turned toward the West at sunset chime, | 

With tired hands clasped in prayerful guise, j 

And heart-beats keeping muffled time ! 

To one sad strain, that aye and aye. 
Through distance dim and silence lone, 

Floats like a dream of " Far Away," — 
The sad, sweet strain, Mignone, Mignone. 

And on the crypt of dear years flown, i 



In shining letters white and clear, 
Fond mem'ry writes the word Mignone, 
And beneath, In mem'ry ever dear! 



FOLD THEM AWAY SOFTLY. 

Fold them away softly. 

The beautiful years. I loved them so ! 
But I held them all too closely. 

And the beautiful things must " go!" 
Fold them away softly, 

Tenderly, they are dead ! 
Why should we treasure the chalice 

When the golden wine is shed ? 

Fold them away softly. 

Their sweetness mocks their pain, — 
The old, dumb pain and pathos 

That stamps their sweetness vain. 



FOR THEE. 149 



Fold them away softly, 
Tenderly, and — then ? 

Could we forget their sorrow 
And live them o'er au-ain ? 



"fc>' 



Fold them away softly, 

Eeverently, God knows best ! 
I, who have learned their lesson, 

Will shrink not from the rest. 
Fold them away softly. 

In the silence dim and lone, — 
I think I've grown too weary 

To weep, or sigh, or moan ! 

Fold them away softly, 

Tenderly, they are dead ! 
Why do we treasure the chalice 

When the golden wine is shed ! 
Fold them away softly, 

Time's vesper rings their knell : 
I held them all too closely, — 

Beautiful years, — farewell ! 



FOE THEE. 



For thee, if I could have it so. 

Life's barque should sail o'er happy seas ; 
No ruder blast should ever blow 

Than matin wind or vesper breeze ! 
My own frail barque would stem the blast. 

And bravely dare a wilder sea, 
If, for each pain and peril passed. 

Some sweeter gladness bloomed for thee ! 

For thee, if I could have it so. 

Life's surer bliss should never fail ; 

No dream of pain, no blight of woe, 
Its sweet security assail. 
13 



150 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

My own sweet dreams of bliss be naught 
If God but gives this joy to me, 

To feel my fondest prayers have wrought 
A sweeter happiness for thee. 

For thee, if I could have it so, 

What earthly bliss would not be thine ? 
I say it over, soft and low, 

In every wish and prayer of mine. 
Where'er my footsteps halt or stray, 

Whatever fate befalleth me, 
I softly pray, God bless the day 

That holds some dearer joy for thee ! 



"ONLY TO KIJ^OW." 

Should your barque be moored in the furthermost port, 

I'd follow, o'er leagues of stormiest sea, 
Only to know that the same sweet day 

Would come from the shadows for you and for me. 
Only to know that the same sweet wind 

That blew on your face would touch mine, too ; 
Only to feel I was nearer to God 

In the fair sweet clime that sheltered you. 

Only to know, — but I look far away, 

Over the opaline splendor of light 
That shifts with the toss of the glittering spray, 

Then closes and battles with coming night. 
Only to know, — but I list to the song — 

The anthem eternal of God's great sea — 
With a wild, wild thought that is half a prayer. 

And a wish for that which may not be. 

Only to know, — but the soft, sweet daj^s 

Will never betray the sorrowful years, 
Though the wine of life be poured in the sea, 

And the chalice refilled with bitterest tears. 



''WHEN THE PANSIES BLOOMS' 151 

Only to know that never a hope 

Will bloom where the sunlight forgot to shine ; 
And never a dream come out of the night 

To gladden the morn with message or sign. 

Only to know I shall never know, 

Till the stars go out at the Judgment Day, 
If ever you give a thought to me 

In the silent night or golden day; 
If ever your gaze recrosses the waves 

That roll, in a measureless flood of miles, 
Between your far-away home and mine, 

To rest half fondly on "Memory's Isles." 

Only to know I shall never know ! 

And the years, the years, are slower to go, — 
If onl}- the days were kinder to me. 

And the nights would fly, or go more slow! 
If I could fly with the ligiitning's flash, 

Or creep with the drowsy, slow-stepped day,— 
But to make no speed and to gain no rest. 

What does it profit to weep or to pray ? 

Only to know, yet, never to know ! 

But what has the now to do with the past? 
I am tired,— so tired,_but God will show. 

And the problem of life be solved at the last,— 
On[j to ^r\o\N 1 ^hoXX never know ! 

And the anthem eternal of God's great sea. 
And the measureless flood of miles and years. 

Are the prophets that show these things to me. 



"WHEN THE PAJSTSIES BLOOM." 

" You'll come to me when the Pansies bloom ;" 
Thus ran the quaint, sweet message ; 

But the words grew blurred, the lines grew dim, 
That held such mournful presage 



152 MYRTLE AND ROSES. \ 

Of something yet unknown, unguessed, — ] 

The future held in waiting, — \ 

Foretokened in the mystic lines, ] 
Life's passion antedating. 

The winds grew warm, their scented breath 

. Marred haughty King Frost's splendor; J 

Spring opened wide her violet eyes, \ 

And earth grew glad and tender. j 

And underneath the sheltered hedge, .' 

The sunbeams dropped their pinions 1 

Softly o'er the opening buds, ■ 

Spring's golden-heai^ted minions. ■ 

i 

And the pansies turned their velvet lips , 

To catch the sunbeams' fleetness, 
To hide within their sunny hearts 

And crown their dewy sweetness. i 

And the sweet, quaint message came once more ; 

Across the emerald billows, 

" The pansies bloom by the sunny hedge, '. 

The grass is green 'neath the willows." ; 

I turned my face toward the golden west, i 

"When the sunset dews were falling, ; 

And hurried on, through the gathering dusk, \ 

Where the mystic voice was calling. -■ 

Alas, alas! when the morning woke j 

I stood 'neath a sighing willow ; ^ 

Beneath its shade an aching head | 

Had found a dreamless pillow ! 

" You'll come to me when the Pansies bloom !" 

Oh, sweet and tender message I 
Of deepest woe, of saddest pain, 

So sorrowful a presage ! I 

The grass grows green where my darling lies, < 

Shut in from the Spring-time splendor; 
And the pansies keep, o'er her dreamless sleep, \ 

Their vigil true and tender. ■ 



ONLY A RING. 153 



ONLY A EING. 

Only a ring of pale red gold, 

Slenderly fashioned, a circlet small, 

Holding a drop of limpid sheen 

Curiously caught in its amber thrall ! 

Only a ring, that a folded hand 

Fearfully thin, and white, and chill, 

Lying at rest, on a pulseless heart, 
Tenderly holds in its keeping still ! 

Leave it alone ; and the cold, white hand 
Tenderly fold on her breast once more ; 

Pulseless, the touch of your living hand 
The deathless in death may not ignore ! 

Only a ring of pale red gold, 

Slenderly fashioned, a circlet small ! 

But the tenderest friend in the world may not 
With tenderest fingers break its thrall ! 

As the pale red gold of the ring came forth 
From the smelter's furnace-heat's fierce hold, 

So the quiet heart, 'neath the bodice' snow, 
Through the pain of anguish won its gold. 

And the symbol-sign of her pain and bliss 
Loose-fettering still one finger slight. 

Shall go with the love of the lovingest heart 
That sleeps in the hush of Death's brief night. 

Only a ring of pale red gold, 

Slenderly fashioned, and yet so prized 

By the faithful heart that gave so much 
For the golden dream it symbolized. 
13* 



154 ^ MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Only a ring of slender gold ! 

And the hand that claims it, dead and cold ! 
But the tenderest touch in the world may not 

Presume to break its fettering hold ! 

Only a ring ! but 'tis hers e'en yet ; 

Kiss the white brow with soft, soft breath, 
But grant her to take this pale, slender ring 

Through the "valley and shadow of death!" 
1887. 



SOMETIMES THINK OF ME. 

Oh ! friend beloved, thy pathway leads 

Through fairer, broader fields than mine ; 
Life holds for thee its gladder creeds, 

Its sweeter fruits and rarer wine ! 
But ah ! for this I do not mind. 

Though oft I fain would walk with thee ; 
I bless a fate than mine more kind, 

But whisper, — Sometimes think of me! 

My path has always wound its way 

Through sterile field or moorland gray ; 
I've ceased to think a fairer may 

With flowers bloom for me, some day. 
Life's fairer dreams have lost their lure. 

And what may be, or may not be. 
Has naught of hope to fail, or dure, 

Save this, — ah I Sometimes think of me ! 

And yet, a strange, sweet rest abides, 

A strange, sweet gladness comes and sings 
Within the thought that softly hides 

Beneath the dear days' golden wings, — 
The blissful thought that life doth hold 

Its fairer, gladder things for thee. 
Spare me one shining thread of gold, 

Dear heart, and — Sometimes think of mel 



''UNTO THE KING FAITHFUL.'' 155 

Oh ! friend beloved, our pathways meet 

But seldom as the days drift by ; 
Fill up, fill up the moments fleet 

With precious treasures ere they fly I 
And if the long days longer grow 

Between the miles that lead to thee, 
One boon I crave ; through gloom and glow, 

Oh ! dear heart, Sometimes think of me ! 
1886. 



"U:^TO THE KmG FAITHFUL.'^ 

Oh, legend true and tender! 

Oh, legend proud and sweet I 
J^o weird Arabian talisman 

Is half so pure and meet ; 
Is half so grand and beautiful, 

Is half so true and sure, 
So strong above all others 

To keep the fond heart pure. 

The world goes on unheeding 

Our pleading or disdain ; 
The tender legend glitters 

Above its fret and pain. 
The dreams of years lie broken ! 

The love of years is vain ! 
" Unto the King faithful !" 

Is still the fond refrain. 

" Unto the King faithful !" 

Oh ! years be glad, be glad ! 
Only the faithless-hearted 

Should find the whole earth sad ; 
We that are loyal-hearted 

Are glad to bear, and do. 
Aught for the royal Master 

Our legend holdeth true. 



156 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

" Unto the King faithful !" ; 

I say it soft and slow, \ 

Like some devout Carthusian \ 

Intonating low 

Masses for some loved one sleeping, j 

Where the South winds stray \ 

Tenderly, as if but keeping | 

Euder steps away. i 

" Unto the King faithful !" j 

Oh ! years be brief or long, 

I've chosen this rare legend ^ 

To help me to be strong. I 
" Unto the King faithful !" 

I meet the hidden test 

That lies within the legend, \ 

And hold it sweetest, best ! , 

" Unto the King faithful !" ! 

The tender legend lies ' 

Deeply graven, softlj" hidden, , 

All unseen to human eyes ; ! 

All unguessed by human knowledge, : 

Hate of foe or love of friend ; i 

'' Unto the King faithful," i 

Father, keep me to the end ! | 



PANSIES AND EOSES. i 

Pansies or roses ! which will you have ? | 

Pansies or roses, my pretty Pet, say ? j 

The pansies are soft as your own dark eyes, i 

And the roses are sweet as the breath of May. ! 

Pansies or roses, my pretty Pet, choose ! 

Which shall I fasten amid your braids? \ 
The pansy's purple will heighten their gold, 

And the rose's red bring duskier shades. | 

j 



PANSIES AND ROSES. 157 

Pansies or roses, which shall it be ? 

Let the soft red curve of your lips declare. 
I'm going, you know, and before I leave. 

Let me twine one blossom within your hair. 

The pansy emblems a constant heart ; 

And the rose is Love's confessed sign. 
Which shall it be ? 1 am going, you know, 

And beg you'll keep one flower of mine. 

The pansy eyes grew luminous, 

And met my own with saddest appeal ; 

The rose-red lips grew strangely white 

With wistful thoughts they might not reveal. 

" Which shall it be ?" The sweet lips smiled, 
E'en while they trembled, and grew more white ; 

The pansy eyes were veiled a space. 
Then turned on me with steadier light. 

" Which shall it be ?" " I cannot choose 
Between the flowers so sweet and fair ; 

Give me the rose to wear on my breast, 
And the purple pansy for my hair." 

I twined the pansy amid her braids, 

And fastened the red rose on her breast ; 

Then touched her hand in mute farewell, 
And sailed away to the golden west. 

Years went by — I had wandered long — 
Ere I stood once more on my native shore. 

The pansies bloomed by the garden wall, 
And the roses drooped by the cottage door. 

But a death-like gloom pervaded all. 

I entered the rose-embowered door, 
But started to hear my own footfalls 

Drearily echoing o'er the floor. 



158 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

And no sweet face with the pansy eyes, 
And rose-red lips of long ago, 

Came forth to find me waiting there, 
And breathe a welcome, soft and low. 



I pushed aside a sombre door, 

And stood within the odorous gloom, 

That, like a breath of deathly air, 
Filled all the summer-scented room. 

And there, within the odorous gloom, 

An ebon casket told the tale, — 
The pansy eyes were veiled for aye. 

The rose-red lips grown ivory pale ! 

And upon the white breast's pulseless snow 
Some gentle hand, with tenderest care. 

Had placed a rose, and softly twiiied 
Dark, purple j^ansics in her hair. 

And this is the end of the long, long years ! 

Oh ! open your pansy eyes, my Pet ! 
And your pale, pale lips, and let me know 

From eyes and lips you " forgive and forget." 

Oh ! if the years had never been ! 

The hateful years and my hateful pride ! 
I might be sitting within the light, 

A sweet face nestling at my side. 

Instead, I stand bereft and lone. 
And my pansy-eyed Pet lies there, 

Dead, — with a rose on her pulseless breast, 
And the pansies she loved in her hair! 

Oh ! a woman's love is stronger than ours! 

How I hate myself and my kind ! 
A woman's love is the gem of the world. 

And the tenderest man is unkind. 



WAIT, MIGNONE, AND BID ME OOOD-BY! 159 

Pansies and roses ! I shall hate them for aye ! 

I mocked her love with their fleeting light; 
And there she lies with her sweet lips pale, 

And her sweet eyes closed in dateless night ! 

Pansies and roses ! I must love them for aye, 

When I remember her pansy eyes, 
And the rose-red lips that bade me good-by 

When I turned my face toward Western skies. 



WAIT, MIGNONE, AND BID ME GOOD-BY! 

Wait, Mignone, and bid me good-by ! 

The day is young, but the noon-tide hour 

Will find me far away; and who i 

Shall know if, e'er again, we twain shall meet? \ 

The days are long, — disaster walks abroad, — j 

And lips, wine-red with life yestreen, j 

Are white with deathly dews to-day ; j 

And loving eyes that smile on us to-day, 

Perchance will close in dreamless sleep to-morrow. ' 

Blame me, if you will; but the thraldom : 

Of the past is fettering my spirit yet, \ 

Although the dread uncertainty has changed ] 

To a passionless certainty that cannot change. j 

And 'tis waste of mortal energy, | 

And the useless conning of a lesson j 

That never can be learned, j 

To try to school my eye and steel my voice j 
To calm indifference, so well assumed 

That no defect shall break its perfectness. j 

Wait, Mignone, and bid me good-by ! ! 
I cannot leave you with a careless mien 

And cool indifference of speech! Say good-by! j 

And hold my hand one moment in your own, — I 



l60 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Smile down upon me as you did in happier years, — 
"Why should you seek to feign a carelessness you do not 

feel? 
I am not holding you accountable for what 
"We neither one could help. 
And, adopting your own phrasing, let us be 
The " best of friends, since we can be no more !" 

But " best of friends" part, not with still, white lips, 
And eyes that have no smile, and hands that fall apart 

ere yet they touch ! 
You made the contract ; is it harder than you thought ? 
I do not tremble, — why should you ? Say good-by ! 
And hold my hand one moment in your own, — 
Smile down upon me as you did in happier years, 
And we will go our separate ways, — 
Good-by, Mignone, good-by ! 



ITHFA. 

How fair, dear heart, are all the days, ; 

For all their hidden sadness ; ; 

The Autumn woods are all ablaze ■ 

"With Summer's ripened gladness. i 

Across their mingled joy and care, \ 

All distance intervening, j 

For thee, with tenderest breath of prayer, 

My wistful heart I'm leaning. - 

"Where'er I wait, where'er I stray, 

Some thought of thee still lingers ; 
And hence the prayer I weave to-day 

"With tender, reverent fingers. 
And while the day drifts out of sight, 

T'ward sunset fields Elysian, 
I clothe my praj^er in surplice white. 

And send it on its mission. 



THE VOYAGER. jg^ 

Across the sunset-hills of light, 

The valleys' piiri^le splendor, 
The soft, pure prayer swoons out of sight, 

Unselfish, true, and tender. 
And in the purple, twilight gloom 

Thou sittest, all unguessing 
The subtile presence in the room 

The wistful soul's confessing. 

And sit I here with patient heart, 

Grown strangely still and lonely, 
As one by one the lights depart, 

And leave the starshine onlj^ 
But, after all, one thought remains, 

So strangely sweet and tender, 
I give all other hopes and gains 

To wait within its splendor. 

And so I bless thee, far away. 

So purely, God will hearken,—- 
Nor thought of wrong o'ercloud the day, 

Nor Faith's fair scutcheon darken. 
Then while the day drifts out of sight 

T'ward sunset fields Elj-sian, ' 

I clothe my prayer in surplice white, 

And send it on its mission. 



THE YOYAGEE. 



Over the waves of a mystical sea 

A bonny, white boat went sailing away, 
Skimming the waves like a tireless bird, 

Conscious and proud in her gallant array. 
A voyager stood on the gleaming deck; 

I caught a glimmer of shining hair; 
And a ripple of song came floating back 

Through the trackless waves of pulsing air. 
14 



162 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

I watched the boat go sailing away, ; 

And my heart went with it over the sea; ; 

And I thought, — ah me ! what a wee little craft ,i 

To sail so far from the sheltering lea ! \ 

And I thought of the voyager's shining hair, — I 

Of the hopeful face and beckoning hand, — '\ 

And the ripple of song that floated back 1 

And dropped asleep on the gleaming strand. I 

And I wept, — ah me! shall I ever again 

See the white boat and voyager fair? 
And I tried to gather the ripple of song. 

But the sweet notes dropped to a wordless prayer, , 

And — but the frail white craft went out of my sight, — ^ 

Only the blue waves fretted and droned, — ' 

The sunlight gilded the snowy spray, j 

The tired winds turned away and moaned. j 

i 
And I waited long by the glittering strand ; j 

I gathered volumes of sea-writ lore; 
But the days grew long, the months grew old, ; 

And years passed on to the soundless shore. 
I waited still, and one lone day . 

The blue waves brought on their heaving breast 
A wee, white craft, — dismantled — forlorn, — 

The Storm-King's guerdon, — the sea's bequest. 

I hurriedly sprang on the desolate deck, — 

Faltered, — drew back with a nameless despair, — 
For the silence of death reigned over all. 

What should I find in the stillness there? 
Only a moment I paused, and then. 

With a prayer for strength, I passed below; 
But the voiceless gloom of the cabin cold 

Prefaced a story of pain and woe. 

I sought again the desolate deck, — 

Searched all the pitiful ruin o'er; 
Till at last I stood on the foam-flecked prow, 

My sad search ended for evermore, — 



GOOD-NIGHT, BELOVED. 163 

For there, in the gloom of the drearj- day, 
I found the voyager, sweet and fair; 

The dead face turned to the setting sun. 
The white lips parted as if in prayer. 

I threw myself by the cold, stark form ; 

I covered the dead lips with my own ; 
I called the loved name o'er and o'er, 

But only the sea gave back a moan. 
And thus it ended, — ah me ! ah me ! 

The beautiful boat was frail, too frail ! 
And the voyager paid the price of her faith, 

And life went out with the tempest's wail. 



GOOD-JSriGHT, BELOVED. 

GooD-NiGHT, Beloved ! Soft and low 

The chime of bells with soft winds blend ; 
Orion strides through gloom and glow 

To zenith brightness as I send, 
Athrough the silent, starlit aisles, 
Across the frost-cold breadth of miles, 

This whispered benison, — Good-night! 
Good-night, Beloved ! Every eye 

Is slumber-lettered save my own ; 
I count the wakeful hours go by 

With every stroke of silver tone. 
And where the window's undrawn screen 
Lets in the starlight's crystal sheen, 

I whisper once again, — Good-night ! 

Good-night, Beloved ! Every night 
Sounds from its belfry this low chime 

Ere yet the Astral's steady light 

Is paled by heavier stroke of time, — 

And time and sense must fade and fail, 

My feet walk through the shadowy vale. 
When I shall cease to breathe Good-night 



164 MYRTLE AND ROSES, 

To thee, Beloved, though I know 
The fond refrain thou dost not hear; 

The pathos of its tender flow- 
Is swallowed up by distance sheer. 

Good-nii^ht, Beloved ! like a prayer 

I send through leagues of starlit air 
Once more the old refrain, — Good-night! 



"FOE SOMEBODY'S SAKE." 

Hidden away from the gaze of man. 

Treasured mayhap for many a year, i 
We hold some trifle a priceless gem 

Gauged by the worth of a thing more dear! 
Onl}^ a trifle, — a faded flower, 

A book, a ring, or a tress of hair; i 

Or a pictured face with the living light i 

Of life's vague m3^stery shining there, — 
Bathed with our kisses and hallowed by prayer^ 

We hold the trifle so dear and so fair, • 

''For Somebody's Sake!" ; 

Folded away in the heart's deep shrine, , 

Treasure we each some sacred thing; i 

Holier far for the deathless love J 

And fair, sweet faith that closer cling, — I 

An imforgotten dream, maybe; \ 

A well-remembered look, or song; I 

The memory of a dear-loved voice ; i 

A smile, a hand-clasp true and strong! j 

Such simple things! Yet treasured more | 

Than wealth of fair Golconda's store, \ 

" For Somebody's Sake !" ! 

I 

Life's fairer fields are not for all ; I 

Its dusty highways must be trod i 

By feebler feet, perchance, than those • 

That walk the green fields flower-shod. ^ 



''FOR SOMEBODY'S SAKE.'' 165 

If ours the feebler feet should prove, 
What matters it ? If dearer take 

The velvet coolness of the fields, 

How sweet to bear it for their sake! 

How sweet to think life's pain shall grow 

To deathless sweetness as we go, — 
" For Somebody's Sake !" 

How much we bear for others' sake 1 

And yet no surer test could prove 
The tenderness of friendship's truth, 

The fondness of a creature love ! 
How slight the burdens life shall bring 

If borne for love of some dear friend! 
How tenderly life's pain and loss 

With patient hopefulness shall blend, 
When we've learned to stand alone, 
Where our shrines were overthrown, — 
" For Somebody's Sake !" 

Whichever pathway tread I here. 

The dusky highway hot and bare. 
Or dewy pathwaj^s flower-hemmed, 

That wind through valleys emerald fair, 
It does not matter yea nor nay ; 

Only this: if I could know 
Some dearer feet were safe beside 

The cooling streamlet's gentle flow. 
My weary feet would go their way 
Gratefully, day after day, 
"For Somebody's Sake!" 

I know I'm neither strong, nor brave, 

Nor wise ; and yet I softly pray. 
If mine shall be the sadder fate 

To see life's fondest hopes decay, 
I still may hold within my heart 

Some sacred thing; e'en should it be 
A memory far too sad to die. 

Too sweet to quail at Fate's decree, — 
14* 



166 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Of something I have learned the cost, 
Of something I have loved and lost, 
Or borne for long unnumbered years 
Silently, with unshed tears, 
" For Somebody's Sake!" 



LOVE'S LABOR' 



" Love's labor" is better, Mignone, than that 
For which earth's guerdon of gold is paid ; 

For the sweetness of life is its tender faith, 
And the dearness its love hath made. 

I've worked for gold, or the things it brought; 

I've wrought at the phantom web of fame; 
I've toiled for the weal of other hearts. 

And the sheen of another's name. 

And I did it aye the best that I could, 
With willing heart and patient care ; 

And each, perhaps, received its due 
Of recompense, or guerdon fair. 

But fairer far than the gleam of gold. 

And sweeter by far than the breath of fame, 

Is Love's dear labor, gladly done, 

For Love's dear recompense and name ! 

I grow full weak and weary oft, 

And long to rest by the weary way ; 

But some dear labor of love makes bright 
The close of each weary day ! 

And so I gather the gold-bright threads, 
And weave me a web of marvellous sheen, 

For the darksome days that aye must throw 
Their shadow of pain between ; 



TENDER AND TRUE. 157 

For the days when the gold of earth grows dim, 
And the phantom quest of fame is naught 

But a passion of pain, a futile dream 

With its own dumb pathos sadly fraught. 

Ay, Love's dear labor is better than that 
For which earth's guerdon of gold is given • 

Love's labor, Mignone, was the golden key ' 
That ope'd for us the gates of Heaven ! 



TENDEE AND TEUE. 

Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! 
God's richest blessing, my darling, for you ; 
Life may be sunless and sombre for me. 
Gladsome or joyless, Fate's certain decree; 
I shall be happy, and blest, and content, 
If over your pathway Hope's fiiir bow is bent, 
A sign and a promise of happiness true 
Garnered and treasured, my darling, for you. 
Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! 

Tender and true ! Ah ! the summer of song 
Is bearing away on its pinions strong 
The dearest hope of a hoarded dream ; 
The brightest glint of a treasured beam 
Whose amber radiance filled the soul 
With joy bej^ond Fate's cold control; 
But the flowers of happiness blossom anew. 
Hoping and praying, my darling, for you. 
Tender and true ! Adieu I adieu ! 

Tender and true! Adieu! adieu! 
God's richest blessing, my darling, for you ! 
Ko other heart, in the years that shall come. 
Will love you so well as the one that is dumb; 



168 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 



!N"o other heart will treasure away, 

With such pitiful care, each beautiful day, 

Because it has touched, in its hurrying flight, ! 

Your lips, and your brow, with its passionate light. ^1 

Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! ■ 

Tender and true ! tender and true ! 

Earth has grown fairer, my darling, for you; 

Beautiful things that I treasured of yore j 

Are fairer, and dearer, than ever before, ; 

Because I have known you these later-born years ; 

And loved you, in spite of pride's passionate sneers, — 

And you'll never know, — would you pity, or blame ? 

But I should love you, my darling, the same! j 

Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! i 

Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! ! 

God's richest blessing, my darling, for you ; \ 

No other heart, in the years that shall come, j 

Will love you so well as the one that is dumb ; \ 

No other heart will treasure away, ^ 
With such pitiful care, each beautiful day. 
Because it has touched, in its hurrying flight, 

Your lips, and your eyes, with its passionate light. I 

Tender and true ! Adieu ! adieu ! i 



ST. YALENTINE. 

A GALLANT knight and a maiden gay 
Are sauntering out in the usual way 

Of gallant knights and maidens ; 
The gallant knight is an archer skilled. 
And the maiden fair is a maiden willed 

To learn the lore of the fay dens. 

And the gallant knight, not loth, I ween, 
Draws the supple bow, with a smile serene, 
And places in her fingers 



MF SHIPS. 169 

The feathered shaft of the arrow keen, 
That glints and gleams in the morning sheen, 
That faintly falls and lingers. 

And the maiden shyly takes the bow, 
But the warm, red blushes come and go 

On her dainty cheeks' full sweetness; 
For the gallant knight, with a gesture bland, 
Is fain to teach with his own strong hand 

The lesson's full completeness. 

But a-swing, unseen, in a vine, ho! ho! 
A sly little archer is drawing a bow. 

And speeding an arrow keener; 
And the gallant knight and maiden fair 
Are changed from the jaunty debonair 

To a strangely new demeanor. 

And the sly little archer swings away 
With a wicked laugh, as the maiden gay 

Grows white with sudden feeling; 
And the swarthy cheek of the gallant knight 
Grows ashen pale, with a swift aifright 

That almost sets him reeling. 

Oh ! a wicked imp is that archer sly ! 
And a precious saint is his sworn ally 

In all such wicked capers ! 
What gallant knight or maiden fair 
Can hope to 'scape the hidden snare 

When blind love holds the tapers ? 
February 14, 1887. 



MY SHIPS. 



I've scores of beautiful ships, dear love. 
Breasting the waves of the mighty sea; 

Some will be dashed on the rocks, I trow, 
But some will surely come back to me. 



170 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

They're stately and fair of make, dear love, \ 

The handicraft of a gracious Fate, \ 

And come from ports of the nether zone, > 

Laden deep with the costliest freight. ! 

I've stores of beautiful gems, dear love, j 

Coming from over the mighty sea ; 
When my stately ships drop anchor at home I 

I'll cull the costliest ones for thee. | 

I've watched and waited so long, dear love, ! 

They surely are coming back to me ; 
I'll make thee rich as a king, dear love. 

When my stately ships come in from sea ! 

I've a beautiful Castle in Spain, dear love, i 

Its fair walls gleam in the dewy light, j 

Its turrets gleam through the misty air, . 

And lose themselves in the dizzy height. ' 

And nestling near to this Castle of mine j 

Shines ever a harbor of unruffled calm, '\ 

The odor of myrtle and breath of the vine i 

Distil o'er its bosom an exquisite balm. I 

And my beautiful ships ride there at their ease. 

In the wonderful sunlight that glimmers and gleams , 
With the wealth of the wonderful nether zone 

And marvellous splendor of Orient dreams. i 

And m}^ Castle is filled with dreams of the East, i 

And rich with the wealth of the Sonorous Sea ; : 

Oh ! a fair rare gem is this Castle of mine, \ 

I've builded and furnished for thee ! 

My beautiful ships sail far and near. 

Over the breast of the mighty sea ; \ 

Some will be dashed on the rocks, I trow, j 

But some will surely come back to me. | 

And I'll make thee rich as a king, dear love, i 

When my beautiful ships get in from sea; 
And my Castle in Spain — the fair, rare gem — 

Shall be deeded and holden for thee. 



CONSTANCY. 171 j 



COJ^STANCY. 

Mid-Autumn lingers down the way 

Through which the wistful year has come; 

I watch the bright days drift away 

With lips grown strangely meek and dumb. 

The glad earth stands in gala-dress; 

I marvel that it seems so fair ; 
The heavy nights so closely press 

Upon the days' unuttered prayer. 

Time was when every Autumn sigh 
Was glad as Spring-time birdling's lay, 

And every breeze that wandered by 
Was soft as tenderest breath of May. 

But that was years, long years ago. 

The world has changed so much since then • 
And sweetest days will never know ' 

The same old gladsome joy again. 

But do we hold the sweet sad days 
Less lovely for their fainter light ? 

^ay, nay ; I hold faith's deathless bays 
The surest charm to keep them bright. 

If we but loved the glad and fair. 

How many days would go for naught, 

Bound 'neath the weight of some despair 
Our sadder fate for us had wrought ! 

Sad days are lovely as the bright ; 

Sad songs far sweeter than the gay ; 
For long our hearts recall the light 

We basked in, in a happier day. 



172 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

But still we watch the amber haze 

O'erflooding woods and fields with gold, 

And still our wistful memory prays 
For one fair, tender dream of old 

To crown the mournful Autumn time 
With something of its olden light, 

When each day rang its golden chime 
Upon the glad year's burnished height. 

So sweet, so fair ! we turn away, 

Hurt to the quick with nameless pain ! 

E'en while with trembling lips we pray. 
We feel and know our prayer is vain ; 

For golden days come not again ; 

Fate's fatal protest seals the past ; 
And all the years 'twixt now and then 

In fainter lines of light are cast. 

Good-by, sweet years ! I fain would hold 
Your tender radiance in my heart; 

Your fairer skies, your lights of gold 
Will find no later counterpart. 

But, do I hold these latter days 
Less lovely for their sadder cast ? 

Nay, nay, the fond heart softly prays 
Dear love shall crown them to the last. 

And, crowned with love, life's sadder ways 
Shall grow some flowers of fadeless hue : 

And saddest skies and sombrest days 
Shall hold some hopes forever true. 



RETROSPECTION. 173 



EETEOSPEOTION. 

Ah ! pages white, thick-sown with tenderest thoughts, 
That show, through all the rich apparelling of Poesy, 
The silver-broidered drapery of language — gift divine, — 
What counter-spell has exorcised the spell that once was 

thine? 
I turn the leaves with listless hands, and look with list- 
less eyes 
Upon the fair, sweet words that clothe the living 

thoughts 
With such rich gracefulness of courtly garb. 

I see, and yet seem not to see, — my vision seems for aye 

to seek 
Some farther clime, some fair, sweet scene of dear de- 
light 
That I have known in happier years, or dreamed about 

in dearer days. 
And, as I turn the thought-mosaicked leaves, a hand, — 
It does not seem my own, — a strong white hand, 
From out the palpitating lamp-glow, seems to reach 
And shut the soft, white pages from my listless gaze. 

And, nothing loth, I fold my palms across my tired eyes, 
And follow where my own thoughts lead, with slow un- 

sandalled feet. 
Across the fairer fields that lie within the vast dominion 

of the Past ; 
" Dear as remembered kisses after death," — the words 

go with me. 
As I wander through the long-remembered walks and 

ways. 
I stoop, and touch the phantom flowers with soft, 

caressing hands ; 
" The days that are no more," — a requiem chime from 

phantom bells 
Seems swelling on the palpitating air. 

16 



174 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

I listen, — soft and slow 
The music swells and swells, — a soft, sad funeral dirge, — 
" Dear as remembered kisses after death," — the music 

dies away, 
And I stand beside an open grave ! 
Your face is white and cold, Laurene ! 
As white as any white, white flower upon your coffin- 
lid ! 
The music dies away, the last sad rite is o'er, 
The mourners leave the sacred spot, and — 
Would God I had died for thee, oh ! Laurene, Laurene ! 

Twelve strokes upon the palpitating air 

Proclaim the mystic midnight hour. 

How long I've lingered in the mist-land of the past ! 

'Tis ever so ! 
My heart (like some lone pilgrim in a stranger land, 
Who ever prays with face turned toward Jerusalem) 
E'er yearns to pray beside that grave that lies within 
The border-land of the "Days that are no more." 
And softly through love's retrospect of love 
We all gain what we long for, at the last! 



THE u:n^attaikable. 

Human hearts are mystic problems. 
Whose solution few can guess ; 

And fewer still can read the answers 
The Delphic mysteries express. 

Nearest flowers are left ungathered, 
Looked upon with weary eyes. 

Whilst beyond our hands' vain reaching 
Blooms the only one we prize. 

Star-winged songsters, golden-throated. 
Crowd the air, — a tuneful throng, — 

But our hearts grow still with waiting 
For a far-off minstrel's song. 



THE UNATTAINABLE. 175 

Golden fruits, of luscious ripeness, 
Hang on branches green and low; 

We could have them for the picking, 
But our listless hands are slow ; 

For, within a distant garden. 

Where the walls are strong and high, 

Glows the only fruit whose beauty 
Tempts the heart or lures the eye. 

Purling streams and cooling fountains 

Fill the valleys with delight ; 
But within a mountain's bosom 

Sleeps a lakelet fresh and bright. 

And we turn from wayside streamlet 

To the far-off mountain spring. 
With the quenchless thirst and longing 

Of the fabled Phrygian King. 

Heaven has set a million star-lamps 

Low down on the hills of ^N'ight ; 
But our eyes, Avith deathless yearning, 

Seek the zenith's farther light ; 

For, amid its farthest splendor. 

Gleams the only star whose ray 
We would pray to guide our footsteps 

O'er life's dark and thorny way. 

Why is it that so much fairer, 

So much dearer, seems, alway. 
That which may not crown our wishes, 

That which may not hope repay? 

Always seeking, always longing, 

For some goal beyond our reach ! 
Others' failures, others' sorrows, 

Do not wisdom to us teach ! 



176 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Oh! human hearts! Oh! mystic problems I 

Unsolved mysteries ye be ! 
And full oft the rueful sequence 

Brings but sadder mystery. 

Unattainable ! How golden, 

Fair, and sweet, and glad alway ! 

Unattainable ! Oh ! hearts unresting. 
Hold the treasures that ye may ! 



"NEYEE A DEE AM OF MINE CAME TRUE." | 

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. ' 

"Never a dream of mine came true !" ; 

I will dream, never more, I say ! j 
But, out of the night, a strong, white hand 

Reaches, and takes my trembling palm, ', 

And leads me down a happier way. I 

I shiver and moan, but follow on, j 

Gladly wherever the white hand leads, j 

Over the ruin and wreck of years, j 

The passion and pain of hidden life, I 

The gaugeless depths of its human needs, — j 

But, — "Never a dream of mine came true!" ] 

\ 

" Never a dream of mine came true !" I 

I will dream, never more, I say ! ! 
But, out of the night, a tender voice 
Fashions a word so sweet and dear, 

It haunts me all the livelong day. J 
I tremble and pale, but follow still 

The loved voice calling soft and low, i 

Till the day dies out in a blaze of gold, I 

And the shadows find me groping still, | 

Stricken — blinded — dumb with woe, — ■ i 

For, — " Never a dream of mine came true !" ! 



GYPSY LORE. 177 

i 

" Never a dream of mine came true !" 1 

I will dream, never more, I say ! i 

But, out of the night, a soft, sad eye ; 

Watches my footsteps as they go 

Wearily down their lonely way. - 
I turn to catch a last, fond look. 

My own eyes dim with blinding pain, 
And Hope lies broken on the ground 
A golden ruin sorrow-crowned. 

Its hoarded sweetness shrined in vain, — ' 

For, — " Never a dream of mine came true !" ; 

." Never a dream of mine came true !" j 

I will dream, never more, I say ! 3 

But the singing wind and sunlight's gold, \ 

The fair, green earth, and the shining sea, '; 

Have each a whisper to give the day. 
And night crowns all with the old fond prayer \ 

I learned when my dreams were sweet and glad ; i 
And, weak and worn, I stand to-day 
Folding the dear old dreams away. 

And life drifts on unutterably sad, — \ 

For, — "Never a dream of mine came true !" 



GYPSY LOBE. i 

I 

" Thou hast crossed my palm with silver, j 

And up to the golden light '\ 

Hast turned the palm of thine own wee hand 

Like a rose-leaf pure and white. ■ 

Ah ! what wouldst thou have, fair maiden? 

' Ope glance in the book of Fate !' I 

Ah me ! 'tis the same old story ] 

Of a heart that cannot wait 1 ' 

" Oh, beautiful lady, question me not ! 

Take back thy silver and hasten away ! ; 

See, the light fades from the opaline skies. 

And Night presses close on the footsteps of Day. 

16* ; 



178 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Up in the East come the flickering stars, 
Myriad lights gleam along the quay, 

And one Avhite ship, from her moorings stanch, 
Is drifting away toward the calling sea. 



"And up in the heart of the busy town, 

A fond woman's heart keeps mournful time 
To the sough and sob of the fitful tide. 

And the distant waves' low rhythm and rhyme. 
And yet, on her warm lips linger still 

The gathered sweets of a farewell kiss, 
And a whispered prayer drifts softly back, 

And fills her soul with a subtile bliss. 

" Wouldst learn yet more, oh, lady fair ? 

Sorrowful days are foreshadowed for thee ; 
The lines grow tangled and warped across 

The beautiful palm thou boldest to me ; 
Over the waves of a shimmering sea 

Thy heart hath gone on a bootless quest. 
And, ere the year wanes, like a stricken bird 

'Twill seek in vain a sheltering nest. 

" Thy sweet lips pale, as the Grypsy crone 

Beads page on page of the book of Fate, — 
Up in the boughs of a stately tree 

A wild bird mourns for a cherished mate ; 
Her mournful song like a funeral plaint 

Wells from the depths of her faithful breast ; 
And yet, where the forest aisles are dim, 

Her loved one sings by another nest ! 

" Beautiful lady, 'tis womanhood's fate 

To learn to suffer, to wait, and be brave. 
If she tampers with love; old Zua knows well; 

For Love's a tyrant, and woman his slave ! 
Thou'rt proud, and strong, and brave, I see ! 

So the smiling lips will give no sign 
When he brings his dainty, fair-browed wife 

To lay her soft, white hand in thine. 



IT IS BETTER AS IT IS. 179 

"And he'll never know how pure and fond 

Is the strong, true love that will not die; 
And the world will marvel, and watch and wait, 

But the stricken heart will make no cry. 
And the years will fade, like a troubled wave 

After the wrath of the storm is past ; 
For the mateless heart, in its blind, dumb faith, 

Will cling to the old love to the last. 

" But the hands will do their appointed work, 

With seldom a wish to wait or rest; 
And over the wreck of this ill-starred love 

Shall blossom a promise doubly blest ; 
For life will keep its glorious truth, — 

Made dearer by this loss and pain, — 
And back upon the surcharged heart 

Sweet love shall pour some precious gain. 

" And life will keep its sweetness, too, 

E'en when its olden sheen has paled ; 
And, counting the steps of the lone, rough way. 

The strong, true heart has almost failed. 
For over, and under, and through it all, 

One blissful thought will pay love's debt : 
He's happy ! thy love ; couldst thou ask for more ? 

Be still, fond heart; ye need not forget!" 



IT IS BETTEE AS IT IS. 

It is better as it is, Mignone ; the lonely years 
Are teaching me the dreary lesson, day by day,— 
The lesson I had not strength to learn 
When first the darkness fell athwart life's fairer way. 

You said that I would learn it some sweet day, 

Some sad, sweet day,— perchance when you were laid 

to rest, 
And I should still be holding "love's best room" 
In sacred keeping for love's royal guest. 



180 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

And yet, Mignoiie, 'tis very hard to learn ; 
Some days- 1 do not learn one dreary, little word ; 
And all I've learned seems slipping from my hold ; 
And I am worn with toil, and sick with hope deferred. 

But I shall learn it yet, oh, friend ! some day, — 
Some sad, sweet day, some sad, sweet day of sad, sweet 

days,— 
And you will know how well I've learned it then, 
And you will grant me generous meed of tenderest 

praise. 



WHAT AEE DEEAMS? 

What are dreams? Ephemera of a restless hour! 
Weird phantascopes that fill the shadow-land of Sleep 
With images, far-fetched, grotesque, and strangely out 

of place, 
Yet blent with wanton semblances of waking things 
That touch the stranjjje phantasma with a glow of real 

life, 
And hold with backward lingerings the free thoughts 

of the day. 

Somewhere, amid the moonlight hush of yester-night, 

I questioned Destiny with proud, imperious warmth. 

What right had she to manacle my hands? 

To maj'k the pathway that my feet should go? 

I would not break, nor bend, beneath her boasted sway! 

And what if life was not the lovely thing I deemed it 

once! , 

The world was wide, and Death would come some time ! 

And with unheeding haste and quick renewal 

Of imperious will, I left the appointed way, 

And once more sought the sweet but fate-forbidden path 

That led unto a goal of happier, earthly things. 

Ah me ! how fair the blossom-girted pathway shone 



WHAT ARE DREAMS? 181 

Against the memory of that other way, 

O'er which my feet must measure out life's weary day ! 

My feet forgot their weariness ; my happy heart 
Leaped from my lips in anthems of ecstatic joy ; 
I thought within my heart the dear God never meant 
That I should keep the other way clean to the end. 
He only let the sword of Fate hang, hair-suspended, 
"While I learned to suffer, and be strong and still, 
And know that God and JDestiny are one ! 

But, well-a-day ! a change came o'er the fitful dream ! 
The blossom-girted pathway turned to loneliest moor, 
"With tall, rank herbage, all a-drip with white fogs from 

the sea. 
I paused, with outstretched hands, but dumb, untrem- 

bling lips. 
And watched the stealthy sea come creeping through 

the grass. 
My fascinated eyes turned neither right nor left; 
The soft, swift hissing of the undulating waves 
"Was all the sound that broke the stillness of the hour. 

And still the stealthy sea crept on, and on ! 

The tall grass wavered to and fro, then sank from view ! 

And Despair reached up and laid his hand upon my 

heart ! 
Oh ! the wide, wide sea ! Oh ! the pitiless sea ! 
Oh! the cold, cold hand on my quivering heart I 
And I could not pray, for my lips were dumb 
From the cold, cold hand on my quivering heart ! 

But I broke the spell of the sorcerous sea 

With a mighty effort, and turned around, 

With outstretched palms and appealing eyes, 

If, haply, an arm could be found to save. 

And lo ! o'er the perilous waste of waves 

Blest hands were reaching out to mine ! And hope of 

rescue 
Exorcised the spirit that had made me dumb. 



182 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

And my loosened lips grew warm with grateful prayers ; 
And the warm tears came and wet my aching eyes ; 
And through their salt}^ mist I sought to know 
If those blest hands had clasped mine own in happier 

times. 
One glance at the calm, brave face, — one glance, and 

my senses swam 
With the blessed dizziness of unexpected joy. 
And I said, in my heart, Jehovah is good ! 
And I waited, content, for the rescuing hands! 

For ah ! the hands were the hands that I loved ! 
And the calm, brave face was the face of my King ! 
And, if death should come, it were sweetness to die 
With my last, last look on that precious face. 
But the rescuing hands were clasping mine own ; 
And a strong arm lifted me out of the waves, 
And gathered me close to a sheltering breast. 

And I laid my head on the sheltering breast. 
In the sweet contentment of perfect love. 
And the stealth}^ sea crept hissing away ; 
And the icy hand that clutched at my heart 
Dropped suddenly, and left me blessed beyond compare. 
I spoke no word ; for words are tame, and slow inter- 
preters of thought. 
But, as I felt the heart-throbs 'neath my cheek, 
I whispered, in my heart, Jehovah is good ! 

And I opened my eyes ; but a flood of light 
Fell on the shrinking irises, and made me quail 
With sudden pain and pitiful affright. 
Sweet friends, 'twas but a fitful midnight dream : 
Ephemeron of rest-defrauded sleeping hours. 
That held, with backward lingerings, the free thoughts 
of the day. 

And yet, what are dreams? Ephemera of an hour! 
Weird phantascopes that fill the shadow-land of Sleep 
With images, far-fetched, grotesque, and strangely out 
of place, 



GOD KEEPETH WATCH ABOVE HIS OWN. 183 

Yet blent with wanton semblances of waking things 
That touch the strange phantasma with a glow of real 



GOD KEEPETH WATCH ABOVE HIS OWK. 

Ah! weary feet, that yet would wait 

In pathways where the flowers are dead 
Or bloom at best in paler sorts, ' 

With all their old-time fragrance fled ' 
Why falter ye ? " The days are long ; 

The onward pathway drear and lone!" 
But learned ye not, in all these years, 

God keepeth watch above His own ? 

Ah ! patient hands, that 3-et would hold 

An empty chalice sweeter sign 
Of life's unfathomed lovehness 

Than crystal goblet stained with wine! 
Why tremble ye ? " The days are drear ; 

I he fields with dead leaves overblown!" 
But learned ye not, in all these years, 

God keepeth watch above His own ? 

^^ • wistful eyes, that yet would turn 

A backward look to other days. 
Forgetting all the wild, sweet dreams 

That burned to ashes in their blaze ' 
Why weep ye so ? " The days are cold ; 

I heir sweetest singing-birds are flown '" 
But learned ye not, in all these years, 

God keepeth watch above His own'? 

Ah! loving lips, that yet would pray 

Day after day the old, fond prayer, 
I hat mingles with its own blind faith 

The sweetness of a vain despair, 



184 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

Why grieve ye so ? " The days are sad ; 

Earth's laughter falters to a moan !" 
But learned ye not, in all these j^ears, 

God kecpeth watch above His own ? 

Ah ! loyal heart, that yet would shrine, 

As in some consecrated fane. 
The shadow of a broken dream. 

The pathos of a human pain ! 
Why throb ye so ? " The daj^s go by 

In shadow, where the sunlight shone!" 
But learned ye not, in all these years, 

God keepeth watch above His own ? 

Oh ! weary feet, walk where ye will ! 

Oh ! loyal heart, there's naught to fear! 
Oh ! wistful hands, and lips, and eyes. 

Hold all your treasures just as dear! 
Another life blooms far away ! 

And beyond the dim "Unknown" 
" Standeth God within the Shadow, 

Keeping watch above His own !" 



SING LOW. 



Sing low, sing low, sweet lingering wind ! 

Sing low,. where my darling lies 
Asleep, with the hope of a happier time 

Shut down in the tired eyes. 
Sing low, sing low, thou mayest not mar 

The tender, peaceful grace 
The Slumber-Angel folds across 

My darling's dear, white face. 
Sing low, sing low, but softly kiss 

The dear wan lips and curtained eyes; 
And lift the brown hair's silken light 

With tenderest breath of sighs. 



ONLY THIS. 185 

Sing low, sing low, oh ! sweet, wild wind ! j 

Sing low where m}^ darling lies ; | 

The night grows old, there are flecks of rose j 

Tingeing the eastern skies. ■ 

Sing low, sing low, dear lingering wind! ; 

The fair, white day begins to break ; ' 

The night is gone, with its curtain of peace, — \ 

Sing low, for my darling's sake ! ! 



ONLY THIS. 



Only this, — if I may be so blest. 
Sometimes to lie on your willing breast. 
Gathered close in your arms' warm fold! 
For a little space to have and hold 
Your glad, warm kisses upon my lips ; 
Sealing their own apocalypse 
By this one sign of a faith made meet 
To crown the trust of a faith more sweet. 
Asking no promise, exacting no sign 
Save this, for a faith that shall answer to mine 
In like, while the years keep their beauty of truth 
Holden with cords of immutable ruth. 
Only this, — if I may be so blest ! 

Only this, — it would seem but small, 
I know, to those who have gathered all 
There is of joy at joy's full tide, — ■ 
The beauty of life, and the prodigal pride 
Of love, that may drink to its fill each day ! 
But to me, 'tis much ; and I softly pray 
Only this, — may I be so blest. 
Sometimes to lie on your willing breast. 
Gathered close in your arms' warm fold! 
For a little space to have and hold 
Your glad, warm kisses upon my lips, — 
Faith's tacitly-sealed apocalypse, — 
Only this, — if I may be so blest ! 
16 



186 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 



YOUR LETTERS. 

*Tis better and wiser, I grant it; 

For the world is so carping and cold, 
And deems but of counterfeit coinage 

So much that is pure as the gold 
That comes from the smelter's furnace, 

All ready for mintage or mart; 
No stain of the mine resting on it, 

No breath of the flames in its heart. 

And these letters of yours that I gather. 

And hoard with such fond, wistful care. 
If 1 were dead, and another 

Should seek in their contents to share. 
Would it be with a heart understanding 

The playful allusion and jest. 
All the beautiful figures and fancies. 

And the trust that is sweetest and best? 

Nay, nay, dear heart ! It is better ! 

I should cry in my grave did I know 
Some cynical eye was o'er-reading 

The letters my heart treasured so. 
One time I remember, too sadly. 

You said /had read with disdain, 
And the passionate pain of the protest 

Is still in my spirit and brain. 

Then, think you, I'd risk that another 

Should read with o'er-cynical eyes. 
Or, twist through the heart of some sentence 

A meaning of uncertain guise? 
Nay, nay, dear heart, it is better; 

You've taught me too well it is so ! 
What matters the silent heart-aching 

That holds them too dear as they glow 



^' KATIE.'' 187 

A breath of shrivelling embers, 

A quivering heap of leaves, 
That the breath of the flames wafts upward 

And the heart of the night receives. 
'Tis better and wiser, I grant it ; 

What you do, I may seek to essay ; 
But 'twere sweeter — ah ! sweeter to keep them 

Till dawn of the sure-coming day 

When I'll lie unheeding the sunlight, 

And the eglantine's odorous breath, 
As it drifts through the rose-bo wered windows 

Of the chamber so still with my death. 
But Death is a master unlenient ; 

No respite, for work o'er-delayed, 
Grives he to the pale-featured creature 

Who lies where his footsteps have stra3^ed. 

'Twere sweeter to keep them, but better 

To give the annibilist, flame. 
Every one of the dainty white missives 

That traces your thoughts and j^our name. 
For the world is so carping and captious, 

I should cry in my grave did I know 
Some cynical eye was o'er-reading 

The letters my heart treasured so. 
1887. 



"KATIE." 

Out in the dusk of the soft vernal night, 

Out in the hush of the gathering gloom, 
Pensive I stray, while the pale crescent's beams 

Faintly illumine my dear Katie's room ; 
Softly caressing her beautiful hair, 

Once ebon in hue, " now mingled with white," 
Kissing the lids of those slumbering eyes, 

While I may but whisper, dear Katie, good-night I 



188 MYRTLE AND ROSES. 

I wished a wish in the depths of my heart, 

As I caught the glint of a falling star, — 

A passionate prayer, — " oh ! Love, my Love !" j 

" Thou art so near and yet so far !" ] 

A cloud passed over the shimmering stars, j 

The crescent dipped low, then faded from sight, j 

And a " cloud is over my lonely life," — j 

A cloud of pain ! — Dear Katie, good-night ! ] 

I list to the wind as it moans through the trees, 

" And long for a step that never will come ; ; 

But better 'tis so, thou'rt happy, I know, j 

Happy and safe in thine own happy home!" ] 

" 'Tis only a love, — hast thou thrown it away j 

Like froth on the spray of the billows white ?" — I 

"A breaking heart to eternity bound," — I 

" Good-night, Angel Katie, good-night !" i 

1886. i 



CYPRESS AND YEW. 



CYPEESS AND YEW. j 

Ah ! the skies are full fair, so you tell me ! j 

And the days, — they are golden with light ! j 

But the shadows are closing about me ; 

With the bleakness and coldness of night, I 

And I walk 'mid the Cypress and Yew ! i 

. i 

I'd fain lie me down with my darling, ; 

Fain gather her head on my breast, — I 

But she's sleeping too soundly for waking, 1 

And the angels are guarding her rest, ■ 

While I — walk 'mid the Cypress and Yew ! ] 

1887. 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

The air's alight with their creamy bloom, 

And all athrob with their rich perfume ; 

The sweet South wind, with an amorous sigh, 

Pauses a moment, ere wandering by, 

To hold the buds in his fervid palm, 

Or sip the dew of their subtile balm. 

And up where the blooms are white like snow 
A robin sings in the sun's last glow, 
A song of love to his shy, brown mate 
That broods below in matronly state; 
And the blossoms form a bower sweet 
To shield their nest from the noon-tide heat. 
16* 189 



190 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

And under the dear old tree I stand, 
And cull the blooms with a loving hand ; 
Ah ! years upon years I've seen it bloom 
With this creamy light, this sweet perfume; 
But never so fair as it seems to-day, 
In the royal light of this fragrant May. 

And I feel the touch of a vanished hand 

Upon my hair as I dreaming stand, — 

A hand that culled from this same old tree 

The sweetest blooms for a wreath for me; 

The fair wreath withered long ago, 

And the hand lies still where the violets blow ! 



And thus, each year, when the sweet May light 
Turns the pale, pink buds to blossoms white, 
I stand alone in the twilight gray, 
And cull the blossoms spray by spray, 
With quivering lips that call in vain 
For one who'll ne'er come back again ! 



\ 

AT MY BEOTHEK'S GEAYE. - 1 

I 

I 

Maple, flushed with scarlet pride, 

1 watch thy stealthy shadows glide 
Across the graveyard's sacred rest ; 

And o'er fond memorj'-'s beaten track 
A loved footstep comes softly back, 
An ever-prized and welcome guest. 

And from my heart the long years fade, — 
A soft, caressing hand is laid 

Gently amid my curling hair; 
I feel a soft kiss on my lips, 
The clinging touch of finger-tips 

That hold me in their playful snare. 



AT MY BROTHER'S GRAVE. I91 

I hear a voice, soft-cadenced, low, 

Through some sweet song's weird ebb and flow 

Eise and fall with the fitful strain ; 
Or hear some sad, despairing tale 
Throb through the viol's plaintive wail, 

Then fade away, — a nameless pain I 

And then ray gaze falls on thy grave ; 
The Maple's banners softly wave 

And drop their scarlet tokens down ; 
My eyes grow hot with unshed tears, 
Born of the pain of buried years. 

That Time's cold stream can never drown. 

The moon has hung her crescent light 
Six times twelve upon the height 

Of golden Ilesper's beacon hill ; 
And yet within my heart's deep shrine 
A voice, a smile, or look like thine. 

Is treasured for thy memory still ! 

And years shall wax, grow wan, and die. 
The stars fade out from Memory's sky. 

Ere Love shall break her vigil lone, 
iEola's harps shall cease to wave. 
Above thy lonely grass-grown grave. 

Their weird and solemn monotone. 

For love is stronger than the tomb, 
Death cannot mar its deathless bloom, 

Nor many waters quench its light ; 
And heaven and earth shall fade away 
Beneath stern Time's relentless sway. 

And leave it still untouched by blight. 

Then sleep on, brother, o'er thy tomb 
Full many a year shall shed its bloom 

Of tasselled light and fragrant breath ; 
But thou shalt still remembered be ; 
Love holds fond memory's golden key, 
And Love is stronger far than Death ! 
1863. 



192 CYPRESS AND YEW. 



EBB-TIDE. i 

Flowing out, flowing out — softly — i 

I hear the sough of the ebbing tide; 

I'm tired, dear love, but ere I sleep \ 

Come sit a moment by my side. * 

Nay, nay, my darling, do not weep ; | 

Hold me so I may see the waves, \ 

The fair, blue waves I love so well, \ 

And the crosses white above the graves 

That sleep at the foot of the fell. i 

You'll be very lonely, Jean, wife ! j 

Ah ! would I might stay with you, dear! i 

We've been very happy, my own dear lass ; i 

But life's white beacons shine out clear, : 

And we've only a few more to pass. \ 

I would you were going away with me, ^ 
Over the mystical, death-dark waves ; 

But who would take care of bonny, sweet " Wee" \ 

And tenderly guard the cross-hallowed graves ? \ 

\ 

Flowing out — flowing out — dimly — j 

Sweet wife, I would slumber a wee-bit while ; \ 

But open the window toward the deep ] ' 

And bring dear " Wee" — let me catch her sweet smile 
Only once more ere I fall off to sleep ! 

Flowing out — flowing — kiss me, Jean, dear! 

How dark it is ! — Stoop down — I cannot see — ] 

Flowing out — but the lights shine strong and clear — j 

And God will take care of Jean and — " Wee!" ! 



LINES TO A ROBIN, 193 



LmES TO A EOBIN. 

Ah ! Eobin, you sit on the topmost spray j 

Of the old pear-tree, grown gnarled and gray 

'Neath the frosts and suns of a century old ; \ 

And you sing your song to the dying day, j 

While the sunset lights grow faint and gray, ] 

And the Angel of Night bars the gates of gold. ; 

Do you know, sweet Eobin, how much of pain 

Is wakened to life by your fitful strain ? \ 

Or how many sorrowful tears I shed j 

For one who sleeps where the willows wave ] 
In fond regret o'er a lonely grave 
In the beautiful City of the Dead ? 

I 

Ah ! months twice twelve have faded away ] 

Since, standing there in the sun's last ray, j 

I marked the shadows that pain had laid \ 

On the crimson cheek, and soft brown hair \ 

I stooped to kiss from the forehead fair, ; 

That lies to-day 'neath the willow's shade. I 

And just as I stooped to kiss her brow. 

One of your clan, on a neighboring bough, j 

Turned his sanguine breast to the western sky, i 

And the hymn of praise in his golden throat \ 

Grew loud, then fell to a single note, 1 

That mournfully died in a plaintive cry. I 

And hence, though I love your vesper hymn, j 

My heart grows sad and the lights grow dim i 

As I think of my sister's lonely bed, | 

That lies away, so far away, ' 
Beyond the tranquil, shining Bay, 

In the beautiful City of the Dead. : 
1873. 



194 CYPRESS AND YEW. 



JENNY. 



Jenny is dead ! So we said, 

As we looked on her coffined face, 
Lying so white and still, to-day. 

With the charm of a nameless grace 
Veiling the features fair! 
Jenny is dead ! So we said ; 

And we laid fair flow'rs above her breast, 
And looked our last on the peaceful face. 

On the folded eyelids' dreamless rest. 
And the pale lips' silent prayer. 



Jenny is dead ! So we said ; 

But I looked at her lying there. 
And the restful look on her sweet, pale face 

Seemed the breath of an answered prayer,- 
The bliss of a realized dream. 
And I said, in my heart, She lives ! 

Her beautiful life is just begun ! 
For her the flowers are blossoming fair 

In the light of a glorious sun. 

By the margin of Life's fair stream ! 



Jenny is dead ! So we said ; 

But I turned away and wept full sore. 
When shall /find a rest so dear, 

So free from Sorrow's bitter store, — 
A rest so calm, so sweet, so deep ? 
Again I looked on the sweet, white face. 

And I put the envious thought away. 
What does it matter ? A few more days, 

And a tender voice shall softly say, 
"He giveth His Beloved Sleep I" 



OUR DEAD FRIEND. 195 i 

Jenny is dead ! So we said, 

As the grave-clods hid her from our sight ; 
And we left her alone with the singing winds, j 

And the vernal sunbeams' golden light, | 

In the church-3'ard lone and still. I 

Jenny is dead ! So we said ; ' 

And the friends that knew and loved her, here, I 

Will miss her from her accustomed place, j 

From the scenes that made her life so dear, — j 

The scenes her memory yet shall fill. ■ 

Jenny is dead ! So we say ; j 

But her beautiful life is just begun ! ■ 

For her the flowers are blossoming fair, \ 

In the light of a glorious sun, j 

Where the beautiful " mansions be !" ■ 

And the angel band has one more face, 1 

And one more voice of sweetest tone; 1 

And one more soul finds infinite rest \ 

In the light of the Great White Throne, ■. 

Beyond life's turbulent Sea. i 

May, 1884. i 



OUE DEAD FEIEND. 

Heroes of the battle-field fall amid the blaze 

Of victory, or the terrors of defeat ; 

And a nation's tears bedew their burial sod, 

And Fame writes on the page of history 

The story of their glorious deeds ; 

And Poesy, with the tenderness of her skill divine. 

Weaves for the circling of their dear, dead brows 

Fair wreaths of fadeless immortelles. 

But when from scenes of calmer life 

Some heart as noble and as true as theirs 

Falls smitten with untimely death. 

What can be said or done ? 

No brazen wail of trumpet, no pageant, no eclat 



196 CFPRESS AND YEW. 

May mar the sacred solemness that clothes the last sad 

scene, — 
All such were but a very mockery, — 
A sacrilege our stricken hearts could never bear! 
And history could not coin words tender enough 
To tell the story of the strong, true heart, 
And the beautiful life that faded all too soon ! 
And Poesy, from her golden store, finds nothing 
Sweet and true enough whereof to weave a funeral 

wreath, — 
We only lay our dead away with plenitude of death- 
less love ! 

Our friend is dead ! ISTo battle-hero ever fell 
More truly at his post! What more can be said? 
The strong, true heart is stilled for evermore ! 
The hand, whose cordial clasp seems yet to thrill 
Our trembling palms, is lying white and cold 
Above his pulseless breast, and hearts are filled 
With unavailing mourning, — lips tremble, and eyes 
Are blind with overflowing tears! 

Our friend is dead ! The soughing winds are telling it 
Unto the whispering pines! Our friend is dead! 
The Sabbath sunshine is writing it upon the sunny 

fields ! 
Our friend is dead ! The very sky seems echoing it ! 
Our friend is dead ! Where'er we turn 
We meet our sorrow face to face ! 

Fold down, fold down your sweetness, wistful winds, 
And sing a requiem, soft and low, above his dreamless 

head ! 
Oh ! golden sunshine, fold your arms 
With faithful tenderness about his grave ! 
Oh ! stars, come out each silver night 
And watch his slumbers till the dawn ! 

Our friend is dead ! Oh ! Christ, 
We yield him to Thine arms, and whisper reverently, 
Through lips half dumb, " Thou knowest best, — Thy will 
be done!'' 



OUR EVA. 197 

And sweetly o'er our aching hearts falls, 
Like the breath of answered prayer, the comfort-ffivin^ 
words, ^ 

''I am the Resurrection and the life;' and we know 
That, if our own faith faileth not, somewhere, beyond 
-The dim unknown, we shall meet our cherished friend 
again ! 
April, 1880. 



OUE EYA. 



Once more, my tender, mournful Muse 

Takes up her plaintive strain, 
And weaves, with wistful tenderness, 

A soft and sad refrain, — 
A soft, sweet melody of love 
For her who sleeps beneath the sod 

Upon the hill-side green. 
Sweet Flow'ret! faded ere the noon 

Of Summer's golden sheen 
Had crowned the heights above 
Our Eva ! 

Across the sweet year's golden bloom 

A wistful shadow lies ; 
And Sorrow veils with sombre wings 

The brightness of the skies, 
And life seems very sad and drear ! 
We knew not how our hearts had twined 

Around that life so frail. 
Until we stooped with aching heart 

And kissed the forehead pale,— 
The pure, pale brow, so fair and dear. 
Of Eva! 

And as we left her sleeping there. 

Upon the hill-side green, 
Our hearts forgot the sweet, glad bloom 

The Summer's golden sheen ; ' 

17 



198 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

We only saw that new-made mound, — 
The lengthening shadows' stealthy tread, — 

The bright day's sad decline. 
But in our heart of hearts we felt 

The touch of love Divine, 
That reached from heaven and closed around 
Our Eva ! 

And so we hush our sobs to rest, 

And leave her, " Dead in G-race !" 
The soft, sweet light of God's own love 

Upon her dear white face ; 
His restful calm upon her soul 1 
And where her tender feet shall tread. 

Oh, may our steps incline ! 
And may our restless hearts grow calm 

Beneath the spell Divine, 
That caught beneath its sweet control 
Our Eva ! 

Ah ! may our onward journey prove 

The brighter for this gloom ! 
Our lives the truer for the life 

That perished in the bloom 
Of golden Spring-time fair and sweet ! 
And when our tired hearts fall asleep 

Along the weary way. 
Oh ! may we find in Paradise 

A fair and gladsome day, 
And in its fadeless bowers meet 
Our Eva ! 
July, 1884. 



WEE BESSIE. 



Tenderly touch the rose-leaf palms ; 

They're very still and cold to-day; 
Kiss the wee lips' beautiful snow, 

For Bessie is going away ! 



BELLE. 199 i 

Over her velvety, soft-brown eyes ; 

Press their gold-fringed curtains of snowj ] 

Smooth once again the shining hair : 

Before we let our darling go. 

Bring the daintiest robe that she has, 

And dress her with tenderest care, '■ 

From the wee, white feet to the slender throat, i 

And the glint of her shining hair. j 

Fold her vesture smooth and straight ; -j 

Our darling is going awa}^ ! ii 
Let her look her own, sweet, dainty self 

This wearisome, heart-sick day. 

It has come at last : we must say good-by ! 

The carriage awaits at the door! \ 

Here are some flowers a kind friend brought ; I 

But Bessie will come back no more ! j 

Our darling's gone on a journey long, \ 

To a land that's fair, but far away; ' 

And our hearts are sad, and sick with grief; | 

For we hury our Bessie to-day. i 

But the little form in its hill-side grave, 1 

The little spirit clad in white, J 

Are cords that draw our souls away 1 

To that dear land that has no night. I 
And so we hush our sobs and wait, — 

We knoio the Father hioweth best ! 

And we can trust wee Bessie's head I 

To lie upon His loving breast. i 

September, 1884. i 



BELLE. 



Dear Belle ! she is sleeping so sweetly to-night. 
With the shadow of death on her forehead white, 

His seal of silence upon her lips ! 
And her fluttering heart has found a rest 
As still as the flowers upon her breast, — 

As the flowers she holds in her finger-tips. 



200 CYPRESS AND YEW, 

And the passionless snow is weaving a wreath 
To garland the clods that hide, beneath, 

All that is left of her earthly form ; 
And the wailing winds are weaving a dirge, 
A threnody soft, from the sough and surge 

Of the muttering midnight storm. 

But Belle sleeps on, and the shadow and sheen, 
The ebb and flow with the ache between. 

Of human hurt and human weal, 
Will touch no more, come it never so near, 
The heart that sleeps where the grass is sere, 

And the snow-wreaths fold their phantom seal. 

Ay, sleeps so soundly that only the " call 
Of the roll of Heaven" shall lift the pall 

Of silence that covers her rest ; 
And only the touch of Omnipotent hands 
Shall loosen the cords of the fettering bands 

That Death and the grave have laid on her breast. 
February, 1885. 



FOEGOTTEN.' 



"Forgotten?" Nay, nay, it cannot be so! 
I gave a startled look into the quiet face 
Of the great strong man who, all unthinking, 
(And with scarce a semblance of regret, it seemed,) 
Stabbed me with the calm assertion of such sorrowful 
belief. 

" Forgotten ?" Nay, nay, oh ! friend, he does not 

know ! 
The world at large may be forgetful that you ever 

lived, — 
The voices that were loudest in your praise 
May, ere this time, have ceased to name your name ; 



" FORGOTTEN.'' 201 

And the places that you filled — to those who fill them 

now — 
Have lost the veriest sign that marked you once their 

occupant. 

But, "forgotten !" Oh ! friend, dear friend, he does not 

know! 
Because the eyes are bright, and the lips have learned 

to smile, 
Is slender proof the heart has lost its aching; 
And he has yet to learn that heaviest sorrow makes no 

sign. 
And "lightest hearts make heaviest mourning!" 

''Forgotten?" Nay, nay, my friend, not while the sun 
Folds down its golden banners, and the starshine 

weaves 
Its silver radiance about your lonely grave. 
And I may keep the childish lore that learned to count 
The months and years with accurate endeavor. 

" Forgotten ?" Nay, nay, my friend, it is not so ! 
And yet I dared not trust myself to say thus much unto 

the friend 
Who calmly said he thought it so, and looked into my 

eyes 
As if for confirmation or denial of the same. 
But what he read there I cannot say ; I only know 
I dared not speak, and soon we talked of other things. 

But his words had done their work ; and yet, I dared 

not show 
The wound his careless hand had set to bleeding. 
But I smiled, and joined him in his jesting after-mood, 
If thus I might not let him see how much his words 

had wounded ; 
But every heart-throb woke anew the old dumb pain 

and woe, 
And stamped his words with sorrowful denial. 

17* 



202 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

" Forgotten V Nay, nay, my friend, it is not so ! 

There's little left to wish or hope for now. 

And there were less if I should steel my heart 

To blank forgetfulness of you and all your friendship 

was to me. 
" Forgotten ?" Nay, nay, my friend, it is not so ! 



HEAVY CLOUDS OF ASHEN GRAY. 

Heavy clouds of ashen-gray 

Lie athwart the sunny skies ; 
Autumn voices, far away. 

Fall like muffled human sighs ; 
Summer, like a vision fleet. 

Passes from our wistful gaze; 
And the fall of burnished feet 

Dies amid a golden haze. 

Far away, an amber mist 

Rises slowly, like a dream. 
Flecked with waves of amethyst, 

Bound with threads of costliest gleam, — 
Summer's pall and winding-sheet 

Of wandering sunbeams' fettered light, 
To fold across the eyelids sweet, 

And bind the dear lips wan and white. 

Good-by, Summer ! tears were meet 

To solemnize the funereal rite ; 
But saddest hearts are those that beat 

Beneath a calm eye's tearless light. 
We fold our fairest hopes away ; 

Our tenderest dreams are naught j 
The loom of life goes day by day. 

And the web of life is wrought. 



WAITING FOR THE DAWN. 203 j 

i 

Summer's glow and Autumn's rain, ' 

Winter's snow and Spring-time's sheen, 

Sweetest dreams and wildest pain, j 

Fill the mystic web, I ween. j 

Still the years go on and on, | 

Wild with wordless prayer and pain, — ■ 

The loveliness of life is gone, \ 

And all its semblances are vain ! 

But good-by, Summer. Once again 

The sweet, sad words fall on the ear. 
I loved you fondly ; well, what then ? 

I've held too many just as dear! 
But good-by, Summer, soft and low \ 

September calls her minion crew, 
And like a death-bell, sad and slow. 

Life's sweeter music dies with you ^ 



WAITING FOE THE DAWN. 

Open the window, dear, — the window toward the East ; 
Loop the curtains wide apart. I fain would catch 
The first faint flush of coming day. The night is oh! 

so long I 
And I cannot sleep for very weariness of heart and 

brain. 
There, that will do I And now, dear heart, lie down 

and take your rest. 
Why should you watch beside me all the weary hours ? 
I shall not want for anything, and I have learned to 

wait alone. 

What ! You will not do this little thing ? You are not 

tired ? 
Well, so be it, then ; come sit beside me, here. 
And we will wait together for the coming of the dawn. 
The outer darkness presses closely on the lamp-light's 

shaded glow. 



204 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

Its sable border shows no broidering of rosy tints, 
Ah me ! the dawn is slow a-coming ! 



Once — it seems a weary while ago now — I found 

The nights too short to hold the golden dreams 

That filled their dusky corridors with floods of molten 

light; 
The lightsome hours furled their wings in swift obei- 
sance to the dawn, 
And the noisy day came all too soon upon the 
Swift-receding footsteps of my happy dreams. 

Ah me ! but that was long, so long ago ! 

And a night came too long for golden dreams ; 

And all too dreary for a hope of speedy dawn ! 

And I waited all alone then, and the dawning never 

came ! 
But, when the waves of hopelessness had gone above 

my heart, 
And across their shoreless dreariness there fell no ray 

of light, 
A voice came, softly whispering, " Thy night shall 

find a dawn. 
And Love's untired endurance shall bring it unto thee ! 

" Beyond the heavenly battlements there wakes a golden 
dawn, — 

A glorious dawn, — to follow on the footsteps of the 
night 

For which no dawn arises in this world. 

And it shall come, e'en though thy heartache and de- 
spair 

Go with thee to the farthermost verge !" 

And when I'm tired, and cannot sleep, I think of 
this; 

And that sweet voice comes back in all its soft, melo- 
dious tenderness. 

And I wait, with '^ Love's endurance," for the dawning 
that is slow 1 



AT YOUR GRAVE. 205 

Lift me up a little, dear ; pile the pillows higher 'neath 

my head ; 
I think the dawn is near at hand, — I see her herald in 

the East, — 
The fair, white " Morning Star," afloat upon a sea of 

opal light ; 
And the dusky outline of the pines shows faintly 'gainst 
The pearl-gray of the sky, — and by this welcome sign 
I know that other night shall yield unto a blissful dawn ; 
And I shall wake, some time, with all the tiredness 
Lifted from my soul, and all the olden heartache 
Settled into restfulness of everlasting peace, — 
So deep no memory of earthly pain can ever mar its 

perfectness. 

The dawn is here at last, dear love ; the East is all aglow 

With rosy lights that put the lamp-light's yellow glow 
to sudden shame. 

I thank thee much, dear friend, for that sweet plenitude 
of tenderness 

That kept thee with me through the weariness of wake- 
ful hours. 

The dawn is here at last ! Oh ! weary night, good-by 
for evermore ! 



AT YOUK GEAYE. 

I KNELT beside your grave, dear love, 
One precious little breath of time ; 

The slanting sunbeams glowed above, 
The winds were sweet as vesper chime. 

But I saw not the sunlight fair, 

Nor heard the sweet wind's plaintive air 
I only knew the long years' prayer 

Was answered as I knelt me there. 



206 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

1 had so longed to touch the mould 
That hid you from my yearning sight ; 

However dark, and dank, and cold, 
It held for me love's fairer light. 

Once, only once, I prayed that I 
Might see your grave before I died ; 

But weary years limped slowdj^by. 
And weary miles were dark and wide. 

Ay, years had grown to heavier years, 
And brought no hope to light their pain ; 

No solace for their griefs and tears. 

And the heart's fond prayer seemed all in vain. 

Till, in some lonelier hour of pain, 

Sad words revealed the heart's despair 

To listening ears, that not in vain 
Were touched by sorrow's hidden prayer. 

And from the tender, listening heart 

Leaped words with precious promise fraught ; 

Sweet words, that o'er life's olden smart 
A veil of blessing softly wrought. 

And journeying with the dear, true friend, 
I sought, at last, the hallowed ground 

Where nodding grasses long will bend 
Above your narrow, dreamless mound. 

And kneeling there I touched the sod, 
With trembling hands that longed to lie 

Close-folded 'neath the same grave-clod 
That sheltered you from sorrow's sigh. 

The weary years may come and go. 

The glad days weave their golden thrall, 

The sweet winds whisper soft and low, 
The sunbeams* glory cover all, — 



FOLDED AWAY. 

Kind friends will keep your dear grave green 
Fond hands with blossoms deck it o'er; 

But, in the shadow or the sheen, 
I'll kneel beside it never more ! 

I prayed to kneel one moment where 
You sleep the long, long dreamless sleep ; 

To fold one tender, wordless prayer 
Above your slumbers, calm and deep ; 

To gather from the sacred trust, 

O'er which fond Memory folds her Avino-s 

One measure small of hallowed dust, *^ ' 
To hoard among my treasured things. 

The prayer was answered; close and dear, 
I hold it 'gainst my beating heart ; 

1^0 aftermath of pain and fear 
Shall break its sacred links apart. 

I thank the dear Christ day by day ; 

I bless the dear friend's tender care ; 
The years may go their lonely way ; 

I have for aye my answered prayer. 



207 



FOLDED AWAY. 

IN MEMORY OF REV. W. C. AMES. 

Folded away,— the strong, true hands 

That led me down Love's wedded way, 
But faltered ere life's golden sands 
Had marked the noontide of the day. 
Folded away,— the strong true hands,- 
Folded away ! 



208 CYPRESS AND YEW, 

Folded away, — the swift, glad feet 

That walked beside me, day by day. 
Through winter's cold and summer's heat, 
Fond and tender all the way. 

Folded away, — the swift, glad feet, — 
Folded away ! 

' Folded away, — the tender arms 

That held our babes, so sweet and fair, 
And soothed away pain's swift alarms 
With patient love and gentlest care. 
Folded away, — the tender arms, — 
Folded away ! 

Folded away, — the loving eyes 

That watched so fondly o'er our way. 
To keep the little lips from sighs, 
The little feet from paths astray. 
Folded away, — the loving eyes, — 
Folded away ! 

Folded away, — the gladsome voice 

That fell like music on our ears. 

And made the weary heart rejoice 

And checked the flow of wistful tears. 
Folded away, — the free, glad voice, — 
Folded away ! 

Folded away, — the true, brave heart, 

The loyal friend and counsellor sure ; 
What man could bear a nobler part, 
Or keep his faith more fair and pure ! 
Folded away, — the true, brave heart,— 
Folded away ! 

Folded away, — the fair, white soul, — 

Folded away, did I say ? 
Ay, ay, but folded in the goal 
Of God's unclouded, blissful day ! 

Folded away, — the fair, white soul, — 
Folded away ! Folded away ! 
March 10, 1878. 



so SOON, OHI BELOVED, SO SOON! 209 



SO SOO:tT, OH! BELOVED, SO SOON! 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 
And the beautiful days of thy life scarce begun, 
And their glory, and beauty, and sweetness scarce won ! 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 
And though we are yielding our treasure to God, 
Our hearts are a-break 'neath the smite of the rod 

That has fallen so soon, so soon ! 

So soon, oh! Beloved, so soon ! 
For the leaven and wine of the beautiful years 
To be marred, and mixed with such sorrowful tears, — 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 
For the great world to move as it moved on before. 
And the places that knew thee to know thee no more, — 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 

So soon, oh ! Beloved, so soon ! 
Yet Infinite Wisdom and love knew best, 
"When It called thee from earth to the home of the blest 

Thus soon, oh! Beloved, thus soon! 
November 12, 1884. 



DO THE DEAD KNOW? 

Do the dead know how the living, 
Through sorrowful days and years, 
Yearn with the passionate pain of remembrance 
For the touch of a vanished hand ? 
18 



210 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

For the sound of a voice that never more 
Will gladden the listening heart? 
For sight of a face that ne'er again 
Will bless love's plenitude of wistfulness? 

Then you know, Mignone, how I wake in the nights, 

With the old fond pra3"er upon my lips, — 

The dear old prayer that long, long years 

Hallowed with frequency of pleading, — 

The dear old prayer the Father answered 

In His own wise way, not mine, 

And blessed you beyond all human need of blessing. 

Then j^ou know, Mignone, I say, how I wake 

With the old fond prayer upon my lips, 

And hands outstretched, agrope within the dark, 

And all atremble with the longing 

To lie once more within the clasping of your own. 

Then you know how, through the gold-bright days, 

Athrob with melody of singing winds 

And silver-throated chorusing of birds, 

I long, with longing too deep for passionate outcry, 

For the soft, slow cadence of your voice. 

Then you know, Mignone, how, through the gold- 
bright days 
And long, long, silent watches of the night, 
My heart aches hungrily, and my eyes seek, — 
In wide forgetfulness of surrounding things, — 
Through measureless distances, and magnitudes un- 

gauged. 
As if, perchance, some blessed inner sight 
Might pierce the portals of the grave 
And look upon your coffined face. 

If the dead know, then you know, Mignone! 
But the knowledge can bring you never a grief! 
Oh! sweet, glad thought! Oh! blessed truth 1 
Our hearts may yearn for a death-stilled voice; 
May ache for the touch of a vanished hand ; 



LITTLE PEARL. 211 

May ache and break for the sight of a face 
That lies where the church-yard grasses grow ! 
But the blessed dead, if they know all this, 
Are free from the j^ain our hearts must bear I 



LITTLE PEAEL. 



Oh ! Birdie, come from your wee, brown nest, 
And fold your wings on my lonely breast ; 
For my little Birdie has flown away, 
And my heart is breaking with grief to-day ! 

She was all I had, my brown-haired Pearl, 
My one sweet love, my bonny-ej^ed girl; 
And the sunshine falls with a dimmer light 
Since they made her bed 'neath the daisies white. 

And where'er I turn, an empty crib, 
A wee white frock, or a snowy bib, 
Or a wee, bronze shoelet of fairy size, 
Brings the quick, hot tears to my aching eyes. 

And from the wall where the sunlight plays 
A face looks down through an aureole haze, 
And two brown eyes a loving watch keep 
O'er the lips that grieve and the eyes that weep. 

But, Birdie, she's gone ; and my heart will break. 
Though I pray for faith for my darling's sake. 
And strive to see through my sorrowful tears 
What my Pearl has 'scaped in the coming years. 

Oh ! Birdie, come from your wee, brown nest, 

And rest awhile on my lonely breast ; 

For my little Birdie has flown away. 

And my heart is breaking with grief to-day. 



212 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

Come rest in my bosom and softly sing, 
While I press my lips to your soft, brown wing ; 
And my little Pearl will be glad to see 
What a comforter sweet her bird can be. 



NOT ALL AJN-SWERED. 

Thy prayer for me, and thine own self, Mignone, 

Waits half-unanswered by the G-ates of Paradise ; 

The echoed pathos of the unanswered half 

Keeps with me day by day. 

The answered half leadeth thee by the waters still. 

And maketh thy resting-place within the pastures 

green. 
Ah ! didst thou think when, from the fulness of thine 

own sad heart. 
Thou framedst that prayer to comfort my despair, 
That thou wouldst be the first the " Heavenly Father 

would bring unto Himself"? 

I prayed that I might earlier find the welcome rest ; 
Because, Mignone, thou know'st that I had grown so 

tired, — so tired, — 
And in all the long, long, weary years would come no 

rest to me ; 
And so I prayed, — Dear Father, let me go. 
And let my Love walk through the pleasant places of 

the earth, 
And drink from all the streams whose flowing 
Maketh glad the hearts of human kind. 

But that was not to be. God's love reached down 

And set its seal of rest upon thy tired brow 

And stilled thy fluttering pulse, and took thee " to 

Himself" 
And the fond, pathetic prayer was answered, Love, for 

thee, — 
And I, scarce heeding shade or sheen since those bleak 

days of sorrow, 



BENEATH THE MAPLE'S SHADE. 213 

Wait wearily along the days that hold, 
Unanswered still, for me, that prayer 
Whose wistful pathos, answered as thou prayedst, 
Will " bring us ultimately to Himself!" 



BENEATH THE MAPLE'S SHADE. 

We've made thy grave where the ancient Maple, 
Tear by year keeps faithful watch and ward 
Above our silent " City of the Dead." 
This same old Maple looked upon thy manhood's 

prime, — 
Perchance upon thy far more youthful years, — 
The vernal winds combed out its tasselled blooms; 
The first faint flush of Autumn dj^^ed its leaves with 

opal hues. 
And thou didst love it! Oft I've seen 
Th}^ footsteps halt beneath its shade, 
Thy snowy locks bared to the fitful breeze 
That stirred its leaves to tremulous content. 
And 'tis meet, methinks, to make thy last, long resting- 
place 
Beneath its friendly sheltering. 
And there are loved ones sleeping peacefully. 
In sacred nearness to thine own long, narrow bed ; 
They walked with thee in happy days agone, 
And sat with thee around the homestead hearth. 
And now thou'st joined them in this silent " City of 

the Dead." 
The dear old Maple throws its flickering shade 
In tremulous patches on thy new-made grave, — 
The Summer sunshine steals athwart. 
And rests upon the neighboring marble's snow, — 
And we turn away and leave thee to thy last, long 

sleep. 
Dear father, may this last, long sleep 
Glide into glad and peaceful waking 
In the Pesurrection Morn. 
July, 1882. 

18* 



214 CYPRESS AND YEW. 



''GOD, KNOWING ALL, KNOWS WHAT IS 
THE BEST." 

" God, knowing all," He will surely withhold 

Naught of the loveliness of earth's dear things ; 
The leaven of life, — its wine and its gold, — 

The beauty and fragrance that closes and clings, 
Like rich harp-melodies, over the days 

The Sea-king hides in the western caves, 
When the light goes out in a golden blaze. 

And Night comes up through the purple waves. 

" God, knowing all," — let me read it once more! 

Slowly, this time, through my gathering tears. 
The leaven and wine, — I must give them o'er; 

And the gold is dimmed by the mists of the years ; 
The beauty and fragrance, how closely they cling! 

I could die with their sweetness upon my face ! 
Ah ! the sweetest charm of a cherished thing 

Is the nameless spell of its nameless grace ! 

" God, knowing all," — let me read it again, — 

I have brushed the mist from my aching eyes ; 
See, I am calm, and as quiet as when 

You praised me for being " so brave and so wise." 
" So brave and so wise," — ah ! you don't know, dear; 

The Father but knows, — I shall learn the rest. 
Let the sweet years linger, gladsome or drear, 

" God, knowing all, knows what is the best!" 



LIGHT OF MY LIFE. 

I WALKED in the light of a beautiful morn 
In a garden of Myrtle and Eoses, 

In a mystical land of odor and bloom, 
A Beulah of exquisite closes. 



LIGHT OF MY LIFE. 215 

And the sun, and the dew, and the odor of flowers, 

And the charm of the season delightsome, 
Covered the world with a mantle of gold, 

A glamour of beauty invitesome. 
And I drank of the founts at their exquisite full, 

Of the flow'rs at their dewy unfolding; 
And the shadow that crept on the trail of the sun 

Was hid from my spirit's beholding; 
For I basked in the heart of the garden of light. 

While the Light of my Life was receding, 
And walked through the morn, blind, blind as the 
night. 

While the worm at my bosom was feeding ! 
And the Light of my Life went out ! 

And the garden of Myrtle and Eoses was closed, — 

Life's mystical garden, love-deeded, — 
And the sun, and the dew, and the odor of flowers, 

And the singing of fountains, unheeded. 
And I lay in the shadows outside of the gate 

While the clods o'er my darling were heaping. 
Too dazed by the truth, too hurt by the blow. 

Too stunned for the solace of weeping. 
Oh ! Light of my Life, could you give me no sign 

That the tempest was gathering o'er me ? 
That the garden of Myrtle and Eoses was doomed, 

And the shadow of death lay before me ? 
Could you give me no sign that the sun would go out 

With the full of meridian splendor ? 
That morning would die on the heart of the day 

That claimed such a woful surrender, 
And the Light of my Life would go out ? 

Oh ! Light of my Life, it were vainness to pray ; 

But the garden of Myrtle and Eoses 
Shines through my dreams, a mystical land, 

A Beulah of exquisite closes ! 
And I go from the days to the pitiful nights, 

From the nights to the days over-cumbered. 
Missing the touch and caressing of hands. 

And the pressure of kisses unnumbered ; 



216 CYPRESS AND YEW. \ 

And I long but to gather once more in ray heart j 

The Light of my Life that has faded, ,j 

And gather once more on my breast the dear face i 

That the mould of the graveyard has shaded ! ; 

Oh ! Light of my Life, it is vainness to pray ! \ 

And the garden of Myrtle and Eoses 
Lies far away in the Memory Land, 

Lost Beulah of exquisite closes ! 

And the Light of my Life is gone ! I 

1884. 



HE HATH BORNE OUR GRIEFS. 

Oh ! mourner kneeling by the bier 

Whereon thy loved one lies all cold and white, 

And unresponsive to thy passionate caress, 

Look up, and let thy tears in less heart-rending anguish 

flow. 
And let thy sobs fall less convulsively 
Upon the death-hushed air ! 
I know not all the world's philosophy 
Can make death otherwise than what it is, — 
The sundering of soul and mortal frame. 
And the sundering, for time, at least, of ties 
That seem too dear for sundering. 
But oh ! bereaved one, through thy tears 
Read softly what the Prophet tells us here, 
And surely it shall make thy heavy grief 
Less grievous to be borne, — 
" lie hath borne our griefs" and all our sorrows carried. 

Oh ! weary one, with travail worn, and sick with hope 

deferred, 
"Walk softly through the shadowed way! 
Hushed be the prayer that may not win amen! 
Stilled be the heart-ache "that no hand may cure!" 
Why shouldst thou bear the burden of thy griefs 

alone ? 



FADED ERE THE NOONTIDE. 217 

Why keep thy sorrow with thee day by day ? 
For, " Surely He hath borne our griefs." 
Ah ! weary one, canst thou not find 
Some germ of comfort in these tender words ? 

Ay, "Surely He hath borne our griefs!" 

And yet, how oft we strive to keep them all our own ! 

Sometimes they seem far dearer than the sweet glad 

joys 
That fold their white palms in our gladder days. 
"We cannot give our loved ones up, e'en when 
The grave-clods take them from our life ; 
We cannot lay our heart-ache at His feet, 
And leave it there with grateful love and trustfulness. 
Ah ! well for us, the Father knows 
The frailness of His creatures ! 
And makes us yet to know, e'en while we strive to 

hug our sorrows closer, 
Se will bear our griefs and all our sorrows carry ! 
887. 



FADED ERE THE NOONTIDE. 

IN MEMORY OF EMMA M . 

Faded, ere the noontide had reached its zenith glow ; 
Faded, ere the blossoms had scarce begun to throw 
Their balmy breath of sweetness athwart the golden 
day; 
Faded, ere the sweetness of life had reached its full, 
Or, crowned with love's completeness, had reached the 
beautiful. 
The "Holy Land" of happiness, adown life's check- 
ered way. 

Faded, and yet not faded ; oh, sistei%of my soul ! 
The beauty of thy piety, so perfect and so whole, 



218 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

And thy loveliness of character, so like a jewel rare, 
Shall shine with iindimmed lustre, while memory keeps 

her trust, 
Above the hallowed portal that guards the precious 
dust 
That love has crowned immortal in the mansions 
ever fair. 

Faded ere the noontide ; but thy zenith sun's ablaze 
Where the golden heights of Paradise throw back its 
burnished rays ; 
And the measure of thine earthly j^ears hath rounded 
to full day. 
With ne'er a thread of silver within thy silken hair, 
And ne'er a line of sorrow upon thy forehead fair, 
Kor yet the scent of grave-mould upon thy bright 
array. 

Faded ! Nay, my sister, thou art set a deathless star 
In the cloudless arch of Heaven, that glorious realm 

afar. 
And Heaven is all the dearer for the thought that 

comes alway, — 
I shall find thee^ robed in whiteness, where the many 

mansions be. 
If my own faith faileth not ere I cross life's troubled 

sea, 
And moor my own barque safely in the port of endless 

day. 



HAZEL DEANE. 



*Tis neither right nor kind, I know. 

That I should wish thee back again ; 
Thou'st gained the heavenly heights that glow 

Beyond the reach of mortal ken. 
Thou'st found surcease of mortal pain, — 

Surcease from all the woes of men ! 
Our loss is thine eternal gain ; 

But oh ! I wish thee back again I 



HAZEL DEANE. 219 

Life's fairer flowers had ceased to bloom 

Ere yet thy friendship wove its spell 
Of mingled beauty and perfume 

Around Hope's shattered citadel ; 
But with the swift years' noiseless flight 

I grew to think of happier things ; 
Faith kept its own, fair, lucent light 

Unshadowed by tempestuous wings. 

I put away the troubled past ; 

In time I should have ceased to pine; 
Contentment would have borne, at last, 

Life's golden-hearted fruit and wine. 
But woe is me! Thy winding-sheet 

Wrought, 'neath its pallor, wilder pain 
Than all the sad years' blind defeat 

Of cherished hopes and wishes vain. 

If thou hadst lived, my life had missed 

One heart-ache that no hand may heal; 
One sorrow that I never wist 

Upon my brow would set its seal ! 
And thou wast happy; and perchance 

ISTo sorrow would have gloomed thy door; 
"To him that hath" life shall enhance, 

And he shall have abundant store. 

And so I wish thee back, dear friend ; 

Still ofter wish thou hadst not died ; 
The wish may have a selfish end, 

But holds diviner thoughts beside. 
The world goes on its joyous way; 

Life seeks a broader, fairer ken ; 
Thou'st gained the courts of endless day, 

But oh ! I wish thee back again ! 
1886. 



220 CYPRESS AND YEW. 



UNDEE THE SNOW. 

Dead, all dead ! my beautiful flowers ! 

Dead, all dead ! and I loved them so ! 
O King of the Frost-land, marshal your clan, 

And cover my darlings deep with snow. 
You froze the light in their dewy eyes 
With the cruel breath of your stormy skies, 
And now they lie 'neath the pitiful snow, — 
Dead, all dead ! and I loved them so ! 

Ah ! Pansies, 'gainst my tired cheek 

I long to feel your soft lips now ! 
Ah ! Yiolets sweet, your fragrant breath 
Would surely soothe this aching brow ! 
But ah ! the bleak wind shrieks and roars 
Against the wide, old-fashioned doors ; 
My darlings sleep beneath the snow, — 
Dead, all dead ! and I loved them so ! 

Ah ! Eoses sweet, I long to hold 

Your rich, red petals 'gainst my face ; 
Ah ! Lilies white, your fragrant bells 

Would rest me with their saintly grace. 
But ah ! the dreary days beat on. 
With all their warmth and fragrance gone ; 
My darlings sleep 'neath ice and snow, — 
Dead, all dead ! and I loved them so ! 



Dead, all dead ! Nay, nay, dear heart ! 

Only asleep 'neath the sleet and snow ! 
Wait till the Spring-time crowns the earth 

With the loving warmth of its golden glow. 
Under the snow your darlings lie 
Only to waken, by and by, 
From the fettered sleep of a winter's night 
Into the Spring-time's marvellous light. 



LET US GO BACK. 221 

Dead, all dead ! Nay, nay, sad heart ! 

Hope shall sweet fruition bring ; 
Under the drifts of beautiful snow 

Sleeps full many a fair sweet thing ; 
Under the snow, our tired hearts wait 
A gleam of light from the "Pearly Gate!" 
Under the snow, oh ! heart, be still ! 
Grod knows best His sovereign will ! 



LET US GO BACK. i 



Oh ! let us go back where the sunshine weaves 

Its asphodel splendor of radiant light; 
Where the birds sing low in the golden eves, 

And the wind from the South comes day and night. 

For the skies of this alien land are drear, 

And muttering tempests o'ershadow the day ; 

I grope in the darkness of anguish and fear, 
Athirst for the sunshine of skies far away; 

For the birds that sing, and the flowers that blow 
In the kindlier clime of that sunshine land. 

Where I walked of old, in the soft sweet glow 
Of the golden dawn and evening bland ; 

Where the wind from the South comes, ever and aye, 
Like the odorous breath of a censer rare. 

And kisses the pain of the feverish day 
To the restful calm of an evening prayer. 

Oh ! let us go back where the skies are clear. 

And the wind from the South comes soft and low ! 
I never dreamed there were lands so drear. 

Where the birds ne'er sing and the flowers ne'er 
blow; 

19 



222 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

Where the wind from the South ne'er softly strays, 
And the asphodel splendor of sunshine weaves 

No shimmer of gold for the weary da^^s, 
No banner of light for the lonesome eves ! 

Ay, let us escape from the land of storm 

To the hills aglow with the sun's glad rays ; 

Where the wind from the South comes, glad and warm. 
And the birds sing on through the balmy days. 

And the lonesome days shall vanish from view 
Like the Arab's track on the desert's rim ; 

And the heart of the world beat warm and true, 
And the chalice of life be sweet to the brim. 
1886. 



HOPE IS DEAD. 



You remember, dear, how fair and sweet 

The young child, Hope, grew day by day ; 
How lovingly I watched her feet ; 

How tenderly I smoothed her way ; 
How utterly my all in all 

I gave to make her young life fair ; 
How wistfully her faintest call 

Came to my spirit like a prayer. 
And now she's dead ! — young Hope is dead ! 

You remember, dear, how much I built 

Upon the sureness of her years ; 
And now the wine of life is spilt, — 

The cup refilled with bitterest tears ; 
The things I prized have lost their lure ; 

The friends I loved seem stranger guests ; 
I dumbly ask how long must dure 

The years that hold but bootless quests? 
For Hope is dead ! — fair Hope is dead ! 



EMPTY HANDS. 223 

You remember, dear, what flowers I grew 

To grace the golden, gladsome time 
When Love should weave a glamour new 

Around her tender, gracious prime. 
The flow'rs scarce blossomed ere they fell ! 

Nor culled I one frail, fragrant spray 
Ere, sad as dirge or funeral bell, 

A voice called down the gladsome day, 
Young Hope is dead ! — sweet Hope is dead ! 

You remember, dear, how sweet life grew; 

How softly all its pain went out, 
And left but hopes so sweet and new. 

There seemed no room for breath of doubt. 
And now life holds no joy nor light ; 

JSTor dream of joy, nor light to be ! 
I scan the skies above the night 

With eyes that but this legend see, 
Poor Hoj^e is dead ! — dear Hope is dead ! 

You remember, dear, now all is o'er ! 

I only bide time's steady flight, 
With patient feet that never more 

Will walk within the golden light. 
God grant the " waiting time" may be 

Not very long that I must dure; 
I am not strong, and life, for me, 

Has lost its olden charm and lure ! 
And Hope is dead ! — fair Hope is dead ! 
October, 1887. 



EMPTY HANDS. 



Poor, empty hands ! And yet it seems but yesterday 

I watched ye sow the golden grain. 

In level trenches carefully prepared, 

And noted with what infinite forethought, 

And diligent endeavor, 

Ye sought to keep the treacherous weeds 



224 CYPRESS AND FEW. 

And stealthy grasses in abej^-ance to your will. 
How lovingly ye watched the slender shoots of green 
When drops of dew, like diamonds, weighed them down ! 
How anxiously ye hovered o'er them when the noon 

was high ! 
And now I watch ye, lying almost nerveless, 
With the stains of labor yet upon the slender palms. 
And the poor, frail fingers bearing yet the marks of 

toil! 
And I touch ye with compassion infinite. 
Poor empty hands ! 

Poor empty hands! If ye had put aside, 
Or slurred, with sloven haste, the morning toil, 
Or sought to put upon another 
The labor which was rightly yours. 
It would not seem so pitiful, 
So infinitely sad, so hard. 
To see ye, when the day is done. 
And lonesome evening brooding in the West, 
Lying clasped in nerveless weariness! 
With not one sheaf of full, ripe grain 
To compensate the morning's careful toil, 
Or gild the labor-stains upon the slender palms, 
And fingers frail to wan attenuation ! 
Poor empty hands ! 



Poor empt}^ hands ! 'Twas not the treacherous weeds 

The stealthy grasses' rude tenacity, 

That marred the fairness of the tended fields 

And drank the juices of the tender grain. 

Untimely frosts drove back the loving dews ! 

And cold, wet winds from out the East 

Came down, with strong, tempestuous wings. 

And laid the ripening grain prone on the ground, — 

The slender roots uptorn and dying in the blast, — 

The promise of the golden morn destroyed. 

The sower looking on with wild, wide eyes, 

And lips that made no audible protest. 

Scarce realizing, in the first wild pain, 



HOW EDITH HELPED MAMMA TO DIE. 225 

What devastation had been wrought ! 
What dreams of profit brought but loss 
And empty hands ! 

Poor empty hands! The promise of the morn 

But makes your emptiness more drear ; 

The o'er-full granaries of rewarded toil 

But make your own uncompensated labor seem more 

hard. 
It seems too hard ! And yet, God knows, 
Not I, what wisdom planned it so, 
Or why Omniscience suffered it to be. 
1 know not which it is, the hand of wisdom 
Or the sufferance of Omniscient will. 
There's only one thing that I fully know : 
Ye sowed the grain with loving lavishness. 
And tended it with unremitting diligence and care. 
And now I watch ye, lying almost nerveless. 
With the stains of labor yet upon the slender palms, 
And the poor, frail fingers bearing yet the marks of 

toil, 
And I whisper, with compassion infinite, 
Poor empty hands ! 
October 12, 1887. 



HOW EDITH HELPED MAMMA TO DIE. 

A TRUE INCIDENT. 



Up in a chamber dusk, and still, j 

A fragile, fair young mother lay, ] 

Unconscious all that life's sweet light j 

Would vanish with the light of day. j 

Below, the grave physicians told 

That soon would fall the dreaded blow, 

And questioned if 'twere wisdom's part ' 

To let the pale young mother know. 
19* 



226 CYPRESS AND YEW. 

The stricken hearts that heard the tale, 
The grave physicians, in their gloom, 

Marked not wee Edith, at her pla}^, 
Within the summer-scented room. 



Nor marked they when she stole away, 
This little child whose mother lay 

A-dyiDg, while the rose-red lights 
Swung out across the shining bay. 

The little maiden went up-stairs 

With soft, slow steps and 'bated breath. 

And sought the room that even then 
Was chilling with the dews of death. 

She climbed upon her mother's bed, 

Kissed soft, wan cheek and dimming eye, 

And questioned, in low, tender tones, 
" Dear mamma, are you 'faid to die ?" 

The mother, startled by her child, 

Was quick to question what she meant. 

Such grave importance to the words 
Her strange, unchildish manner lent. 

" Who told you, darling? Do they think ?— " 

The failing accents fainter fall. 
" No matter, mamma, what they fink ; 

You needn't be 'faid at all. 

" Now shut your eyes close, mamma dear, 
And hold my hand in yours, weal tight; 

I'll stay by you, and when adain 

You wake, you'll be where 'tis all light." 

The eyes were closed, as Edith wished. 
The two hands clasped in loving guise 

A moment's space, and Death pressed down 
His seal upon the mother's eyes. 



DEAD— ON CHRISTMAS DAY! 227 J 

I 

And when the other friends came in, \ 

With halting speech and footsteps light, i 

Their startled vision met a scene 
Too pitiful for human sight ; 

For, cold and still as sculptured dream, | 

There lay the pale young mother — dead! ' 

And, holding tenderly her hand, 
Wee Edith sat upon the bed. 



The soft, pathetic eyes looked up, 

The voice, like tender ring-dove's call. 

Breathed low, " I helped dear mamma die. 
And she was not 'faid at all!" 
October, 1887. 



DEAD— ON OHEISTMAS DAY! j 

] 

In the very heart of the mystic time ; 

That fashions the pall of the dying year. 
There came, with the peal of the day's last chime, 

A rose-leaf thrill from a baby's bier, — j 

Sorrowful words from a stricken heart, ■ 

Faltered and swelled 'neath a new pain's sway; 

For, cold and still, in a room apart, \ 

The one wee son of the household lay j 

Dead — on Christmas Day ! ; 

i 

Lying at rest in his cradle bed, \ 

In the natal dawn of Bethlehem's scene, ! 

With the light of a million stars o'erhead, i 

And a thousand years, twice-told, between ! : 

Gone away with the fair, faint light, .! 

Led, by the " wonderful Star before," ] 

To the " City of David,"— beyond the night,— j 

Though the stricken hearts sigh o'er and o'er, 

" Dead — on Christmas Day !" j 



228 CYPRESS AND YEW. j 

Lying at rest, while the golden chime 

Of jubilant bells rings loud and clear, -i 

And the marvel of ages boar with rime i 

Stirs the pulse of the sumptuous year. ; 

Lying asleep, with the soft, new light I 

Of His birthday on his baby face ; '! 

Dead, with the going away of the night, — i 

Dead, on the threshold of life's race, — ! 

Dead — on Christmas Day ! i 

! 

Fair little babe ! If 'twere mine to say, ; 

And the fair little babe were mine to lose, \ 
Methinks the dawn of the Christ Child's Day 

Were the least sad day for Death to choose ; ; 

For He that slept in the manger's straw ; 

Seems ever to come to our hearts more near 

With tbe dawn recurrent the Shepherds saw, \ 

Flooding the skies of the first glad year i 

That held a Christmas Day. : 

Lying asleep in his cradle bed. 

In the natal dawn of Bethlehem's scene, ; 
With the light of a million stars o'erhead. 

And a thousand years, twice-told, between ! ; 

Lying at rest, — ah ! hearts, while ye bleed, \ 

Wakens the dawn of a goldener day ! ■ 

The luminous hght of an equable creed i 

Goldens the shadows that fall when ye say, \ 

^^ Dead — on Christmas Bay !'' i 
1887. 



PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

Bring me a bloom from the Passion-vine ; 

Gather it tenderly, reverently, dear ; 
Lay it just here, while I seek to define 

The fancied resemblance that makes me revere 
The glorious flower I've loved unseeing. 
Lay it against my weary face, now ; 

Tenderly, dear, I am very weak, — 
Dimly the cross on Calvary's brow 

Looms in the distance, drear and bleak, 
As the mists from the day are fleeing ! 

And the Passion-blooms and the Almond-sprays 

Mingle their splendor of scent and bloom 
Softly along the lingering days 

That measure the steps to the waiting tomb, 
At the close of the day's endeavor. 
And over my breast you'll lay them, dear. 

When I wake no more at your loving call ; 
When the glory of Hope, for the shadows drear. 

Has burst from the folds of shroud and pall, 
And I walk in the light forever ! 

1887. 



229 



230 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



" OUR BIBLE. 

Oh ! glorious Gift of Love Divine ! 
What heart can seek for surer sign 

Of Love's divine completeness? 
We lift our tender, reverent eyes, 
And fold our palms in thankful guise, 

For thine ungauged repleteness. 

Athrough the dust of ages gone 
Thine everlasting truths shine on, 

Unchanged, undimraed, unfaded ; 
Along the passing year's swift flight. 
In letterings of immortal light, 

They gleam untouched, unshaded. 

Our deepest anguish finds a balm, 
Our wildest storm a blessed calm. 

Our dearest hopes fruition ; 
Our fondest prayers are blent with praise, 
And dear rest crowns the weariest days 

Beneath thy sweet tuition. 

Oh! glorious Book ! Oh! gift divine. 
What earthly lore shall live like thine, 

By gloom of years unshaded ? 
Thy truths shall gild, for evermore, 
Faith's "Promised Land,"— life's "Farther Shore," 

When earthly things have faded ! 
1882. 



OUE CHUECH. 



We leave our sandals at the door. 

And walk with noiseless, rev'rent feet 

Within the walls where, evermore 
Besounds, in measures soft and sweet, 
The boundless love of Christ. 



OVR SEMI-CENTENNIAL. 231 

We leave, outside, all pain and care, 

And every vexing thought of ill, 
And wait, with hearts athrob with prayer. 

The troubling of the waters still 
Of Christ's all-healing love. 

Dear Church of Christ, our souls are glad 
To wait within thy walls of Peace ; 

Whatever woes our hearts have had 
Shall find, in Thee, a glad surcease, — 
A satisiying balm. 

No outside hurt shall weave its thrall 
To mar the peace of thy dear fane ; 
One Church, one love, one Christ o'er all, 
Sweet peace and unity maintain 
Forever and for aye ! 
1882. 



OUE SEMI-CENTENNIAL. 

Stand we to-day, with a backward gaze, 

Counting the years of a vanished time. 
Till " Fifty'' swells like a song of praise 

Born of a faith and a love sublime. 
Turn we back, where the first sweet years, 

Wailing and weak, as an outcast, lay. 
Wet with the rain of such sorrowful tears, 

Wounded and worn with sorest dismay. 

Such pitiful years ! But sweet love kept 

Tenderest watch through the lonesome days; 
And the feeble feet grew stronger, and crept 

From dank and cold to sunnier ways. 
And our fathers prayed, like priests of old. 

When the world was young and faith was new, 
That the " Peace of God" might have and hold 

Our infant Church in its armor true. 



232 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

And we laid away the hurt and the woe, 

The fret and pain of sorrowful years, 
As we looked upon the cloud, and, lo ! 

God's bow shone softly through our tears. 
And still they prayed, our fathers old, — 

A sainted band they stand to-day, 
Bej'Ond the sunset fields of gold, 

AH clad in robes of white array. 

And still they prayed ! Our Church grew fair, 

The turbid years grew calm and sweet. 
With mutual love and mutual prayer, 

Fair twins to work wrong's sure defeat. 
And still they prayed, and " Mutual Eights" 

Bound closely man to brother man ; 
What surer happiness requites 

The rightness of a noble plan ? 

And so the years grew fair and glad, 

'Tho' stirred, with here and there a moan, 
As when a mourner, sable-clad, 

Kneels, weeping, at a funeral stone ; 
For, here and there, a veteran fell 

From out the ranks of true, brave men ; 
And who shall guess, or who shall tell. 

The sorrow that o'erwhelmed us then ! 

For sore we missed them, veterans true ! 

Their saintly prayers and counsel sweet 
Fell, like the balm of Hermon's dew. 

On days grown wan with feverish heat. 
But while we wept them, Faith's fair hand 

The veiling curtain drew aside. 
And showed them, crowned, a shining band. 

Beyond death's dark and swelling tide. 

And so our hearts grew glad and still ; 

No noontide heat should mar their rest ! 
No thrill of pain, no breath of ill. 

Their sweet security molest. 



OUR SEMI-CENTENNIAL. 233 

How well they fought th' unequal fight ; 

How well they walked the troubled way ; 
We, who stand in the zenith light, 

Can feel and know it all to-day. 

And cherished names our hearts read o'er; 

Fond Mem'ry strikes no broken chord ; 
'Tis like a page of rhythmic lore 

That vibrates still with sweet accord. 
Dear fathers of our struggling band. 

Sweet mothers of that troubled time, 
With hearts united, still we stand, 

The offspring of your love sublime. 

To-day we fold our thankful palms 

In fond remembrance of your care ; 
To God we tune our grateful psalms, 

His goodness and His grace declare. 
And t'ward the few who yet remain — 

Whose waiting hearts still fondly yearn 
Our fair, loved Church to shield from pain — 

Our tenderest love shall ever turn. 

But let our thoughts go back a space ; 

Slowly, mournfully, like a wail, 
Or, soft, sad eyes that dimh^ trace 

The pathos of a mournful tale ; 
For, as we lingered by the way, 

All flushed with happiness and hope, 
A shadow fell athwart the day 

While yet the sunlight hung aslope. 

Not larger than a child's wee palm 

At first, it seemed of little note ; 
The sunny air was sweet and calm, 

The sunny sky without a mote. 
Save this wee shadow hanging low, 

A black spot on the fair, blue sky, 
While yet the wind sang, soft and slow, 

Fair Nature's tender lullaby. 
20 



234 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS 

But, like a baleful bird of prey, 

The Shadow swept its dusky wings 
Adown the trembling, shrinking day, 

And smote it with unhappy things. 
And brothers' hearts were rent with pain, 

And bitter word leapt into life ; 
And all the prayers of years seemed vain 

To check the quick, tumultuous strife 

That, like a mountain lava-stream. 

Flashed down, our startled ranks atween, 
The terror of its lurid gleam 

O'erclouding all the day's glad sheen ; 
And tears — tears, — such wild, sad tears. 

Fell on the pages, white and fair. 
That caught the record of the years. 

And sealed it with a sob and prayer ! 

And parting words were coldly said, 

And clasping fingers fell apart. 
The sweetness of their old love shed 

Upon the altar of the heart. 
And years came down with slow, sad pace. 

And walked our severed ranks between ; 
The sweetness of their old-time grace 

Forgotten 'neath their altered mien. 

But, while the years went drifting by. 

Till decades two had slowly sped, 
The Shadow melted from the sky, 

And noontide glory shone instead ; 
For, high above the olden pain 

Of severed ties and troubled years, 
A voice, like some ^olian strain, 

Fell softly on our waiting ears j 

And pulses leaped and heart-strings thrilled 
With reawakened love and peace ; 

The troubled waves of doubt were stilled, 
And came to pain a glad surcease ; 



OUR SEMI-CENTENNIAL. 235 '' 

And lips, once cold, grew warm with smiles; ) 

And eager hands stretched forth to clasp, \ 

Across the dim years' fretted aisles, i 
A brother's hand in cordial grasp. 

The stoutest could not turn away : 

Love forged the golden links anew ; j 

And, like a sweet, harmonious lay, i 

From loving lips forever true, ■ I 

Euth's tender pleading shook the heart 

With one glad pulse of joy divine. 
More tender for the sweeter part 

It typified in that dear sign. < 

1 

Beunited! Oh! let the years | 

Wherein we walked estranged and cold, ■ 
Be blotted out with thankful tears. 

And love more patient than of old ! 

Too strong to fall, if God's dear hand 1 

Shall guide us through all doubts and fears, ' 
We'll stand at last a happy band. 

Beyond the world's turmoil and tears. \ 

i 

Oh ! glad reunion, strong and dear ! ; 

God grant thy golden cords may hold \ 

Our hearts in fondest union here, j 

Whatever pain the j^ears unfold ! j 

And if His goodness and His grace | 

Another fifty years shall send, , 

God grant they leave no sadder trace I ; 

God grant they find so sweet an end! i 

November 12, 1878. ; 



236 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



CONFEEENCE. 

THE MEETING — THE SESSION — THE PARTING. 

The Meeting. 

The cool, damp fingers of the wind beat softly at the 

portals of the day ; 
The soft, gray clouds, like misty banners wide un- 
furled. 
Drooped low above the wakening Town, 
As the darkness passed, like swift-winged flight of 

birds ; 
And, from out the shadowy dreamland of the night, 
The clasp of viewless fingers led us into day, — 
The glad, tumultuous day, that held within its palm 
The lingering clasp of many a loving hand. 

Anon, above the outside throb of happy sounds, 

And the inner mirthfulness of voices glad, 

Our Church-Bell threw its welcome voice. 

Peal after peal, in soft, slow, echoing sweetness upon 

the pulsing air. 
And lightsome feet turned swiftly toward its mellow 

call. 
The gladsome beat of happy hearts timed softly to 

their echoing tread ; 
Along the busy street, amid the swaying crowd. 
Upon the dim-lit stair, and within the dreamy hush 
That filled the fair new church with golden hopes, 
Friends met with friends, and lingering palms 
Thrilled softly to the touch of lingering palms, 
And loving eyes met joyously the glance of loving eyes ; 
Glad voices dropped to gladder cadence, 
And swelled in soft, sweet undertone 
The welcome of the day. 



CONFERENCE. 237 

And I, who seldom leave the precincts of my home, 

Sat wistful!}^ amid the joyous crowd, 

And wove, with soft-caressing thought. 

Full many a web of glittering sheen. 

Full many a crown of fadeless bay. 

And many a fair, sweet dream, pathetic in its very 

wistfulness. 
All wrought from out the witchery of the fair, glad 

hour. 
And laid, a fond, pathetic offering. 
Upon the shrine of our dear Church, our Brotherhood 

and Faith. 

But while I dreamed, the joyous hum of greeting ceased, 
Hushed into silence by the soft, entrancing flow of song, 
Commingled with the plaintive swell of organ-notes. 
The music floated out, and died in lingering echoes on 

the air. 
And from the sacred desk spoke one whose words 

seemed touched with living fire, 
That brought new Hfe to failing hearts. 
And built a wall of strength for younger feet to climb. 
And, listening, my heart forgot the dreary way that 

seemed so long. 
And the old, dumb pain and pathos of the years 
Was hushed to momentary rest ; and 
I was glad, and thanked the blessed Christ 
For that sweet hour, the place, the theme. 
And all the pure accessories that made the scene so dear. 

The Session. 

The busy days went drifting by, full-freighted 
With the breath of song, and the after-hush of prayer, 
That followed in the wake of business and debate. 
The white-haired sires, slow-tottering on the border- 
land of heaven, 
Eecalled with wistful fervency the scenes of earlier 

years. 
And spoke with something of the old, enthusiastic 
warmth of youth, — 
20* 



238 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS, | 

The full, rich vigor of their golden prime, — 

And dim eyes shone, like stars, revealed by momentary ] 

burst of veiling cloud. ■ 
And dear old faces seemed to have caught from heaven- 

lier skies than ours i 

A wondrous light of peace and love. ' 

And stately prime looked on with clear, calm eyes, 
Or joined, with ringing voice, the keen debate, ; 

That thrilled with swift, electric touch 
The sentiment of the hour, — 
The deep, important questions of the day. 
That make or mar the welfare of our Church, ' 

The peacefulness of her border-land, ; 

And the loving concord of her happy Brotherhood. 
And youth, in all the splendor of its first, fair dawn, ' 

Grew eloquent in the modest zeal whose sonorific ] 
breath j 

Was like the prophecy of golden good to come. 1 

And — the patient clock marked off the passing hours ! j 

The Parting. \ 

Soft fell the footsteps of approaching Eve, \ 
As o'er the western slopes the sweet Day took its silent 

way; 

And sombrely the clouds spread out their misty wings : ; 

Soft fell the lamplight's fitful glow ; 1 

And hurrying feet sought once again i 

The sacred precincts of Grod's house of prayer. \ 

But a change had stolen softly o'er j 
The scene, erstwhile so gladsome-bright, — 

A wistful sadness trembled on the lips, j 

And shone from many a pensive eye. I 
The keen debate grew spiritless ; 

And wearily the speakers turned away, I 

And sat them down with saddened mien. \ 
And — the patient clock marked off the passing hours I 

And — the Session closed ! - 

But, while we waited silently the end, • 



CONFERENCE. 239 

Up rose the grand, old, consecration hymn : 

" Jesus, I my cross have taken, 

All to leave and follow Thee." 

And clear and strong it broke upon the wistful sad- 
ness of the hour, — 

And soothingly came after-words of hope and cheer 

From veteran lips long used to prayer and praise. 

But the " Silver Tongue" grew tremulous. 

And his dear, grand face pathetic with the mist of 
gathering tears. 

" Nearer, my God, to Thee," swelled softly 

Like the " benediction after prayer." 

And — the patient clock marked off the passing hours ! 

At last ! Along the muffled aisle there came 

The sound of footsteps we had longed to hear. 

And soon the grave, sad face turned full upon our 

waiting gaze. 
Awhile he paused, as if for strength 
To master some emotion strong ; 
And then, with slow, grave voice and mien. 
He gave to each true worker in God's vintage-ground 
Some field of labor for his care. 

'Twas over ! Loyal hearts crushed back the sigh. 
That rose, perchance, for broken hopes and faded 

dreams. 
And patiently resolved to serve, as best they could, 
The blessed Master, whereso'er His work might be. 
'Twas over ! And lingering palms 
Pressed closely lingering palms. 
And wistful hps grew tremulous with sad adieu ; 
And many a prayer was whispered in the parting 

words. 

'Tis past ! But sitting here, I seem to feel 

E'en yet the strong, true clasp of loving hands, 

And hear e'en yet the friendly greetings 

And the sad adieus of new, old friends, 

And friends grown dearer with the lapsing years ! 

'Tis past ! But I shall not forget 



240 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

The old, new friends, whose warmth of greeting 
And regard has touched ray wistful heart, 
And dropped such golden memories within my wistful 
life. 
March, 1884. 



THAT FADES NOT AWAY. 

The glor}^ of Autumn is crowning 

The hills with its opaline glow; 
The sun swings away to the southward 

And the pulse of the year beats low. 
And I stand 'mid the asphodel splendor, 

And hush of the fair, fading day. 
And think of the changeless forever, 

And the beauty that fades not away ! 

Ah ! the world is so rich in its beauty, 

So fair in its largess of light, 
'Tis better for us that the G-iver 

Should suffer the shadow and blight ; 
For, methinks if this radiant glory 

Should know neither blight nor decay, 
We'd find it too fair for renouncing 

For the glory that lies far away ! 

If the dear ones we cherish so fondly 

Were never to falter and die. 
Would we long for the face of the Father, 

And a home in the " Sweet By and By" ? 
ISTay, nay ; for we love them so fondly, 

Could we keep them forever and aye, 
We'd find this dear earth far too lovely 

To wish for a home far away ! 

Ay, I think of all this as I loiter, 
Half-wistful, amid the rich glow, 

When the sun swings away to the southward, 
And the pulse of the year beats low ; 



HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 241 

And the asphodel splendor of sunshine, 
And the prodigal Autumn display 

Of opaline radiance, whispers 

Of the beauty that fades not away ! 
1886. 



HE GIYETH HIS BELOYED SLEEP. 

Fast fall the evening shadows where the golden sun- 
light fell ; 

The muffled singing of far-distant waves drifts 

Athwart the undulating miles of emerald fields and 
forest glooms, 

And swoons to requiem sadness on the inland Breeze's 
breast ; 

The stars put on their silver stoles, in priestly waiting 
by the altar of the night, — 

All earth is hushed to silence, — and — 
He giveth His Beloved sleep ! 

All day the strife of elements has lashed the sea to 

wrath ; 
And a brave, white ship has fought its desperate way, 
Sailless, mastless, inch by inch, against the furious 

gale. 
But at last a calm broods o'er the waste of waves ; 
The sun goes down to rest beneath a sea of gold ; 
And, scarce one league away, a shining harbor lures 

the weary ship to rest, — 
And He giveth His Beloved sleep ! 

How wearily the months and years go drifting by ! 
Ah! "sad-eyed weaver," fill your web with shining 

threads ; 
Touch each dusky bar with borderings of gold. 
Some day the " loom of life" will cease its jar, 
And the shuttles lie at rest, 
And the " sad-eyed weaver's" task be done ; 
For, He giveth His Beloved sleep ! 



242 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

Some day ! Ah ! 'twere well to keep it thus in view I j 

Else, could we lay our dead away, and leave \ 

The long, white graves to heaven's dew and rain, | 

And never kiss the dear dead lips nor touch the fond, ^ 

true hands again ? j 

Some day ! Ah ! " sad-eyed weaver," the years are slow ; j 

" But each one is nearer the end," and God knows best I j 

Some day, and we shall fold our weary palms, \ 

And friends will say, above our dreamless heads, ! 

He giveth His Beloved sleep! ' 

1882. 



AT THE "GATE CALLED BEAUTlJ^UL.' 

All through a long, long, golden dream, 

That drifted o'er my soul last night, 
A visioned glory, not of earth, 

Kesplendent, met my raptured sight. 
Beside the " Gate called Beautiful" 

My wandering feet had come at last; 
And standing there, I watched a throng 

Of white-robed spirits gliding past. 

The Pearly Gates were opened wide 

To let the white-clad pilgrims through ; 
Beyond, the fields were fair and green ; 

The bending skies were soft and blue ; 
The mansions fair were strong and sure. 

And from a throne of gleaming white. 
Between the streets of shining gold, 

A crystal river wound its light ; 

Above the crystal waves, drooped low, 

Green branches heavy with their store 
Of living fruits, whereof to eat 

Is pain and hunger never more ! 
And ah ! from out the portals bright 

Such music drifted, sweet and clear. 
That heaven's bright stars forgot to move. 

And entering souls half paused to hear. 



AT THE ''GATE CALLED BEAUTIFUL." 243 

I Stood spell-bound, enraptured, awed, 

Watching the pilgrims, clad in white, 
Passing within the " Gates of Pearl," 

And roaming o'er the fields of light. 
So great a throng ! And still they came, 

From lands of suns, from lands of snows, 
With eyes once dimmed by earthly tears, 

And cheeks once paled by earthly woes : 

Little pilgrims on whose brows 

Passions of earth had left no stain ; 
Youthful feet grown tired of earth 

Ere life's sweet morn began to wane; 
Man and womanhood's full prime 

Seeking for a happier land ; 
Aged pilgrims, silver-haired, 

Tottering, halting, staff in hand. 

Each one at the " Beautiful Gate," 

Waiting for an entrance there; 
Entering within the peace and light. 

Leaving without the pain and care; 
Each face growing glorified 

Within the light of God's dear love ; 
Each one dropping the mortal life 

To grasp immortal life above. 

And as I stood with wistful eyes 

Half-dazzled at the strange, bright scene, 
Behold ! there lingered at my side 

A being clothed in radiant sheen, 
And stooping down, it whispered low, 

"Dear child, be patient yet awhile ; 
Thy time is not yet come ; trust on ; 

Life's pathway brightens 'neath God's smile 1" 



244 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



CHEIST CHUECH BELLS. 

The sunset weaves an amber veil 

And folds it lovingly about the sweet day's tender 

face; 
One radiant star floats out, — a silver shallop on a sea 

of waveless gold, — 
And the evening shadows steal from out 
The stately pine-tops' odorous gloom, 
And furl their dusky pinions on the far horizon's golden 

^ rim, — and the day is done ! 
The silver shallop, that so lately floated on its sea of 

waveless gold. 
Floats on in calm serenity; but the sea has lost its 

golden glow. 
And a million million stars have joined the radiant 

first, — 
A vast, vast fleet of shining silver ships 
Afloat upon the bosom of the waveless " upper deep." 

And across the stretch of luminous miles 

That lies between the city's lamp-illumined streets 

And the dusky shore-line of the starlit sea. 

Comes on the wings of love's fond memory of youthful 

days 
The soft, melodious chiming of Christ Church Bells. 

How soft and slow the well-remembered melody 

Falls on my listening heart ! the outer senses 

Have no cognizance of silver-throated chime, 

Or long, long stretch of luminous miles. 

How tenderly the dear old peal floats out upon the 

palpitating air ! 
Now sweet and low like wistful sigh of soft ^olian 

winds, — 
Anon, to sadder, slowlier strains, as if 
Some human heart's unspoken pain 



CHRIST CHURCH BELLS. 245 

Had touched the dear bells' silver tongue, — 
And, anon, to grand, triumphant notes 
That soar, like white-winged seraphim. 
Up through the starlit corridors of air, 
To heavenlier courts than ours. 

Oh 1 soft, sweet chime of Christ Church Bells ! 

The old-time love oft hears thine evening peal 

Amid the starry stillness of the "evening dews and 

damps" 
Of a home that lies too far away to catch 
The silvery chiming of the bells that charmed my child- 
ish ears ! 
And, along the stretch of weary years, 
I turn and look with wistful eyes. 
And marvel that the old-time love still holds, 
Through all the heart-ache and the sorrow of the years, 
Such loving memory of thy silvery chime. 

Oh! soft, sweet chime of Christ Church Bells! 

I sit to-night with folded palms and wistful face turned 

listeningly, as if 
The billows of the bay were but a span of sparkling 

spray 
That hides the city's radiant lights and drowns 
The glorious chiming of thine evening peal. 

And, anon, upon my waiting heart the soft, sweet music 

drops its tender spell, 
And I seem, once more, the little dreamy child 
Who used to seek, at set of sun, the lonely attic pane. 
And wait, through hours of deepening solitude. 
The first faint chime of Christ Church Bells. 

Alas ! for dreams of childhood's days ! They turned 
To ashes on my lips. Only the fair, sweet, childish 

Faith, 
The old, fond, silent Love grew stronger with Hope's 

swift decay. 
And the years went on their hurrying way. 

21 



246 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. j 

But whatever comes, or doesn't come, j 

Or howsoever long the years may be, j 

The old-time love will often hear, 

Through distance dim and silence lone, 

The soft, sweet chime of Christ Church Bells 



THEEE'S A GEEEJSr HILL FAE AWAY. 

There's a green hill far away ; 

In fancy mine eye hath seen 
The dewy light of its misty height, 

And its gentle slope of fadeless green. 
God's own sunshine, like a mist 

Of woven amber, gilds its height; 
God's own beauty flecks its slope 

With fadeless tints of bannered light, — 
So sweet, so fair, that green hill far away I 

Tireless footsteps climb its heights. 

All heedless now the weary way 
Wherein they faltered, weak and worn, 

Beneath the burdens of the day. 
Tireless voices, sweet and clear. 

Fill all the air with music rare ; 
Forgotten, now, the old, wild pain 

That filled earth's music with despair, — 
So free from care, that green hill far away! 

There's a green hill far away ! 

God's tender love shall guide our feet 
To where its gentle, emerald slope 

Is fanned by zephyrs cool and sweet; 
And God's own sunshine, like a mist 

Of woven amber, gilds its height ; 
And God's own beauty flecks its slope 

With fadeless tints of bannered light, — 
So fair, so dear, that green hill far away I 



^^THE LAND 0' THE LEAL.'' 247 



"THE LAND O' THE LEAL." \ 

Oh ! where is the " Land o' the Leal," mother, j 

The beautiful land of the good and true ? \ 

I watch the West as the sun goes down, j 

And the golden gates let the daylight through, j 

And I see beyond, or seem to see, i 

Beautiful valleys and verdure-crowned hills, j 

And fields all abloom with unfading flowers, j 

And crystalline fountains and singing rills. j 

But after the radiant gates are shut ' ' 

The beautiful vision fades from ray sight, j 

Till the Angel of Eve from her slumber awakes, j 

And circles with diamonds the brow of night ; j 

Then just beyond their wildering beams ] 

" The Land o' the Leal" of ray fancy lies ; '\ 

I can catch the purl of its singing rills, ; 

And an azure gleam from its sapphire skies. j 



When the Queen of the Dawn, with her mystical wand, 

Sweeps the glittering sunrise curtains by. 
And the Day King's gorgeous chariot wheels 

Leave a golden track on the Eastern sky, 
I look beyond the Orient gates 

And the sunrise curtains' roseate hue. 
And, far away, 'neath Levantine skies 

" The Land o' the Leal" meets my longing view. 

But where is the ''Land o' the Leal," mother? 

You speak so oft of its radiant light ; 
Of its fadeless flowers and singing rills, 

And its sapphirine skies that know no night, 
That I long to see the fair, bright land, 

And wander amid its fadeless bloom, 
And drink from the living rills that flow 

'Neath a sky that knows no cloud of gloom. 



248 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-EUDS, 

Tbo pictures my dreaming fancy paints 

On the sunset clouds and plains of night, — 
On the Eastern sky when the shadows gray 

Turn amber-red in the morning light, — 
Are fair and bright ; but they fade away 

With the strange, wild dreams that give them birth 
Or lose themselves in the azure deep 

Whose unchained billows gird the earth. 

So I long to know where the real land 

Of the leal and happy spirits lies; 
Is it but a dream, or a blessed truth, 

That will some time greet our mortal e3'es? 
For I long to see the beautiful land, 

And wander amid its fadeless bloom, 
And drink from the living rills that flow 

'Neath a sky that knows no cloud of gloom. 



"STILL WATERS." I 

Thirsty, and weary, and worn ! j 

How slowly pass the feverish moons! i 

The sultry mornings wake, beat on to stifling noon, | 

And wane to dewless eventide ; 

And the long Drouth's dragon lips 

Have drained the shallow streamlets almost dry. 

And our own parched lips are quivering with pain ! 

Thirsty, and weary, and worn ! 

Father, lead us where the waters lie, | 

Cool and still, beyond the desert's rim I , 

Hungry, and feeble, and faint ! 
The tall, sweet herbage of the vernal time 
Is shrunk to tasteless stubble in the fields ; 
No palm-tree's grateful shade 

Makes welcome resting for our weary heads ; ^ 

And our sandalled feet are blistered by the hot and arid i 

sands. ! 



FAR-AWAY VOICES. 249 | 

Hungry, and feeble, and faint I | 

FatKer, lead us where the grass grows green j 
And dewy-sweet, close down beside the waters still ! | 

Hungry, 'and thirsty, and tired ! i 

How oft we fain would rest us by the way ! ^ 

How oft we fain would cool our feverish lips \ 

From streams that yield no bitter flow ! ! 

And oft, how oft, we fain would satisfy ■ 

Our hungry cravings with ambrosial food ! ^ 

Hungry, and thirsty, and tired I I 

Life hath its pastures green, its waters cool and still, ' 

But not for all; some feet must walk through barren 

ways ; ■ 

Some lips allay their thirst from streams ; 
That are not always sweet ; some hearts pick, hungrily, ] 

A scant subsistence from unkindly fields! i 

Father, lead us by the " still waters," i 

And make us to lie down in the green pastures ; 

Of thine everlasting love and peace ! i 

1886. : 



FAE-AWAY VOICES; OR, "THE LOED HATH | 
NEED OF ALL." \ 

Thrilling the heart of each whispering breeze ] 
From the shadow-dimmed isles of far-away seas, I 

Cometh a wild, sad moan, — 

The cry of spirits lone! 
And hearkening, we lean to catch the sound 
That hurteth the heart like a sudden wound ! 

And shall we respond but with sighs and tears 
To the hearts a-dark with the wild, blind fears 

Of Error's passion reign. 

Its triple-welded chain ? ' 

vShall we fold our hands and listlessly say, 1 

Ah ! well, there cometh a happier day 1 ] 

21* I 



250 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS, , 

Shall we fold our hands and quietly wait \ 

The golden dawn of that happier state? 

When, be it great or small, i 

" The Lord hath need of all" ? j 

And for the care of His willing ones' hands \ 

The riotous soil of his untilled lands ? ■ 

Shall we ? Nay, nay, there is so much to do I \ 

The work is so great and the workers so few ! 

Oh ! hark the plaintive call, — 

'' The Lord hath need of all,"— 
For manhood's strength and jubilant prime, 
For its fair-souled age and youth sublime I \ 

A}^, fair little children amid their plays ! 

May hasten the dawn of the golden rays .| 

By love, or labor small ! 

" The Lord hath need of all ;" i 

And, far away in the shadow-dimmed lands, \ 
There's lightsome work for the bonny, wee hands 

And the womenkind of the earth, that aye \ 

Have a torch of love for the clouded way, ! 

For this great work shall they \ 

Have naught to do or say ? ■ 

The women of eld were fain to do ; 

Much for love of the Master true! ; 

And shall we he less fain than they \ 

To work for Christ in His own good way? i 

When, be it great or small, ' 

" The Lord hath need of all !" 
Ay, ay, sweet sisters, 'tis grandly true 
There's work for the weakest hands to do ! 

For the blessed Christ hath need of all, — .; 

The grand glad strength, and the efforts small i 

Of all His willing ones 

'Neath pale or golden suns, 
'Mid the riotous growth of beautiful lands, ! 



Or the barren bleaks of lonelier strands. 



THANKSGIVING. 251 

Ay, the blessed Christ hath need of all ! 

And ever there cometh that same faint call 
Of voices far away, — 
" Show us the King's Highway ! 

Give us to take of His bounteous store, 

So that we hunger and thirst no more." 

Then rouse, oh ! sisters, and for our Lord 
Let us deem no work too great or hard 

For heart or hand to do. 

In love and patience true ; 
For, far away, in the shadow-dimmed lands, 
There's work for all His willing ones' hands ! 
November 26, 1884. 



THANKSGIVING. ; 

Once more the beautiful year has brought : 

Its golden fruitage of gladsome things ; i 

Once more the music of life has caught 
New sweetness from diviner strings. 

Once more the touch of an unseen hand ; 

Has brightened " the lights along the shore; : 

Once more the heart of the grateful land | 

Is glad for its wealth of garnered store. 

:i 

Once more, — and shall we forget how long ;! 

The bountiful Giver has blessed our land ? j 

Held it through peril of blight and wrong i 

In the hollow, safe, of His own strong hand ? j 

1 

Nay, nay, from the sire and grandame gray, j 

Waiting the turn of the golden key, I 

To childhood fair, at its morning play, 

And toddling babe at its mother's knee ; \ 



252 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

From the chief of the land to the least 

And humblest that works through the day, 

Frorti the poet, the minstrel, the priest, 
To the beggar that sits by the way, 

Comes this pause in the hurrying year, — 
This gathering in of the golden grain 

Of life and love, and the tender cheer 

That finds for each loss some hope of gain. 

And each of us might, if we would, look back 
And find some good that the year had brought 

To us alone^ though the clouds seemed black 
And the devious way full danger-fraught. 

Then unto the thanks we give to-day, 
For the golden fruitage of the j^ear. 

And the peace that sheds its stead}^ ray 
Still over the land we hold so dear, 

Be added the breath of a meeker praise, 

And the chant of a lowlier strain. 
For the blessings that sweetened our own sad days, 

And the loss that was better than gain. 

November, 1886. 



THE YEAE'S LAST SABBATH. 

The Year's last Sabbath stands, and waits 

The soft unfolding of the gates 

Of pearl and gold that gleaming rise 

Beyond the sunset's purple dyes. 

Her robes of shadows fringed with gold 

Are clasped with opals, fold on fold ; 

Wine-red rubies, rich and rare. 

Hide amid her gold-lit hair. 

How fair she is, as thus she stands. 
The Year's last records in her hands. 



' * NASSA WA NGO.'' 253 

His last sweet light of saintly grace 
O'erflowing all her pensive face ; 
'Tis sad, methinks, so sweet a face 
Should lose its old-time charm and grace, 
And change for charnel dank and gloom 
The old-time beauty and perfume. 

Oh! fair, sweet Sabbath, last of all 

To smooth the Old Year's frost- wrought pall, 

And cover with your mantle's fold 

The dear, dead face, so white and cold I 

Is it for this your saintly face 

Is comely with unstinted grace? 

Then never can you lose for aye 

The glorious beauty of to-day ! 

Never lose your fragrance sweet ! — 
Hist I I hear the joyous beat 
Of footsteps, jubilant and light, 
Along the corridors of JSTight. 

What does it mean ? — Sweet day, farewell ! . 

The wind-harps wail your parting knell ; 
The New Year taps at my open door; 
Good-by, dear Year ; we shall meet no more I 
December 31, 1876. 



" NASSA WANGO."* 

Full many a fair, white day has furled its golden 

banners 
Upon the mystic battlements of Time, 
And many a night has wrapped her shining mantle 
About the grand old Earth, and fastened it 
With gleaming jewels from the dusky meshes of her 

own dark hair. 



* Nassawango, one of the old landmarks of Methodist Protes- 
tantism, situated near Nassawango Creek, and not far from 
bnow Hill, Worcester County, Maryland. 



254 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

Since, dear old Church, thine architrave was laid 
Amid the spicy odors of the ever-whispering pines, 
Whose emerald branches caught, and mingled 
With their own weird music of far-distant seas, 
The first glad song of praise that floated from thy 
consecrated doors. 

The strong, true hearts, whose ready hands - 

With love's devotion reared thine unpretentious walls, 

Have long since dropped the burden of the years, 

And in the shadow of thy sheltering love 

They sleep the last, long sleep that knows no earthly 

waking, 
And the mossy marble counts the passing of the years ! 

What changes fifty years have wrought! 

Thine infant years were full of weariness and pain ; 

Some hands were fain to smite thee on thy tender 

cheek ; 
And jeering voices mocked the plaintive melody of 

thine. 
The jeering voices now are still ; thou hast left 
The shadows of the vale, and sittest in the sunlight of 

the golden plain. 

And o'er thine aged features broods a look 

Ineffably sweet and calm ; 

And o'er the wounds and scars of earlier years 

The ivy of an everlasting peace has grown ; 

Life's stormy years have brought thee to an heavenly 

calm, — 
A shining harbor where the lights are never dim. 

Thou hast borne the burden and the heat 
Of the long, long, weary day ! 
And now, methinks, 'tis only meet and right 
That thou shouldst lay life's burden down. 
And take the victor's palm and crown ; 
Ay, lay the burden of the long, long years aside ; 
There are younger shoulders than thine own to bear 
it now. 



' ' NASSA WA NOO." 255 

A fair, young daughter lifts love's pleading hand 

And calls thee blessed, evermore! 

Upon her graceful shoulders drop the mantle thou hast 

worn so well, — 
The mantle of that patient faith that brought thee 
Through the weary years that nevermore, please God, 
Shall vex the Zion of our Lord. 



Upon her fair, pure brow fold down the seal of thine 

abiding love, 
And breathe upon her fragrant lips the charity that 

thinks no ill ; 
And in her tender keep and care leave all 
The cherished memories of the past ; 
She'll keep them with the fondness that a dead beloved 
E'er wins from hearts of tenderness and truth. 



Good-by, old Church. Sometimes we lay our dead 

away, 
And none is ever found to take the lost beloved's place. 
Not so with thee, old Church. The fair, young 

daughter 
That shall fill thy place, and bear thy cherished name, 
Sh^l keep thy memory ever green throughout the 

years that yet may come ; 
And we will love the fair young child 
That bears the cherished mother's name. 



We'll crowd her gates with grateful songs, 

And paeans of resounding praise, 

To that dear Father, who has brought 

Our feet through devious ways to paths of pleasantness 

and peace ; 
And to her sacred trust we give far more than 

memories of the past ; 
Within her loving keep we fold the precious hope of 

many a soul, — 
Each hope, please God, some day shall bring to glad 

and full fruition. 



256 PASSTON-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

The Old and New, to-dii}^ wo bless with prayerful 1 

benedictions ; I 

God blessed the Old ; God bless the New with ever- i 
lasting blessing! 

1883. I 



"OUR MISSIONARY TO JAPAN.' 
He has bidden adieu to his native land. 



And gone, with his bonny bride, 
To find a home in the distant isles 
That sleep on the azure tide 

Like a dream of shadow and sheen. 
But over the waves of opaline light, 

Lading the whispering wind. 
Come sweet echoes, softly borne, 
To the dear ones left behind, — 
A mystical bridge fond hearts between. 

And we look on the fields in their Autumn pride, 

On the woods in their Autumn sheen, 
And waft a prayer to the sunn}- isles 

O'er the waves that roll between 

His olden home and the distant new. 
A prayer for the Master's untilled fields. 

For the barren slope and plain. 
Awaiting the patient laborer's hand 

To scatter the o-olden cjrain, — 
A prayer for the dear heart brave and true. 



And the patient love that never tires, ! 

Though the Master's work be slow, 1 

Shall find, amid those alien fields. 

The sweet stream's rippling flow, j 

The budding blossoms' radiant sheen. 



''OUR MISSIONARY TO JAPAN.'' 257 

And for the long day's patient toil 

The evening's breath of balm 
Shall bear upon its scented wings 

Its own sweet, heavenly calm, — 
Glad retrospect of joys serene ! 

For the Master's fields are growing fair 

'Neath the smile of love divine; 
His vineyards are bathing the purple hills 

With the dew of their golden wine. 
And the "Star of Hope" shines fair and clear. 
Ah I the golden fruitage comes, at last, 

To the heart that w^orks and waits ; 
And the breath of prayer is the golden key 

That opens the " Pearly Gates" 

And brings the "Land of Promise" near. 

Then to thy tender keep and care, 

Dear Christ, we give our absent friend ; 
The golden seed his hand shall sow 

Thine own dear love shall watch and tend, 
Thine own good time the fruitage bring. 
Oh ! heart of time, beat on, beat on ! 

Love's soft reveille marks the dawn ; 
The shades of night are drifting by; — 

Oh ! heart of time, beat on, beat on ! 
And the isles with sweetest echoes ring I 

Oh ! heart of time, beat on, beat on ! 

There's light beyond the blue waves' foam; 
And happy hearts beat glad and high 
Within our distant " Mission Home," 

And the "Star of Hope" shines fair and clear. 
God's promise spans the bending sky ; 

God's love shall shield our absent friend ; 
And the precious seed his hand shall sow 
God's tender love shall watch and tend 
Till the golden harvest-time is here! 
1882. 

22 



258 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



A PEAYEE. 

Saviour, take my stricken heart, j 
And let it be Thine own ; \ 

I'll choose, once more, the better part, \ 

And love but Thee alone. j 

How long I've walked apart from Thee, : 

With human grief oppressed, 
Fit semblance of the " troubled sea" 

That cannot, cannot rest! 

Oh ! what is human help to me 
In this untold despair ! 

1 lift my tearless eyes to Thee \ 
In agony of prayer. . j 

Oh! by the sorrows Thou hast known, 

Stoop down and comfort me; : 

I can no longer bear alone -' 

The grief I bring to Thee ! 



I lay it at Thy precious feet ; 

I've carried it so long ; 
Dear Saviour, let Thy promise sweet 

Transmute it into song. 



SABBATH-DAY. 



Behold the shining Sabbath sun j 

Another course has almost run ! i 

Along the western heights of day 
He takes his unmolested way. ; 



CHRISTMAS. 259 

Another day; our waiting souls 
Have caught the glory that unrolls 

In soft, ecstatic waves, and thrills 
Along the grand Sabbatic hills. 

Another da}'' ; we fold our palms 

With tenderest breath of grateful psalms, 

Because our Sabbath's God has given 
Another stepping-stone to Heaven. 

Another day ; we pause and think 
Of that sweet land beyond the brink 

Of evanescent sense and sound, — 
A Sabbath-land of rest profound. 

A Sabbath-land where love shall find 
Fultilment of God's promise kind, — 

A glad surcease of pain and tears. 
Throughout eternity's wide years ! 



CHRISTMAS. 



Oh, come from the land of the sunset. 

From the zone where the ice-king reigns, 
From the smiling, rosy Orient, 

And the South-land's radiant plains! 
Come, shout the glad evangel, 

Till the hills their silence break, 
And the loud, triumphant pasans 

The heavenly echoes wake. 

Hark ! Through the heavenly arches 

Floats a strange, melodious song, 
And the viewless wings of angels 

Bear our raptured souls along, 
Till we stand 'neath the silver starlight, 

On the lone Judean plain, 
With hearts grown dumb with gladness, 

As we catch the sweet refrain. 



260 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

"Peace on earth," — the glad evangel 

Drops its balm upon our hearts, 
And we stand with souls uplifted. 

Heedless of life's keenest smarts, 
Drinking in the glorious story 

By the " wise men" told of old, 
Of the birth of Israel's Saviour, 

Oft-repeated, yet untold. 

Lift your hearts, ye breathing millions, 

Shout His praise on this glad Day; 
Oast aside all earthly passions. 

Fling sad thoughts and cares away; 
And with one accord and impulse 

Join the glad, triumphant song, 
Ohanted first o'er Bethlehem's hill-tops 

By the bright, angelic throng. 

See, His star shines o'er our darkness; 

Undiminished is its light ; 
Lo ! it guides our wavering footsteps 

Through the dark and dreary night, 
Up to where the shining portals 

Of the mansions, fair, unseen. 
Soon will ope to guide our spirits 

To the fields of living green. 

Oh, then join the glorious paean. 

All ye nations of the earth ; 
Crown the day with glad hosannas 

That beheld the Saviour's birth ! 
Sing aloud till earth and heaven 

Echo with the glorious song, 
Chanted first o'er Bethlehem's hill-tops 

By the bright, angelic throng. 
1874. 



THE ROCK THAT IS HIGHER THAN I." 261 



"THE EOCK THAT IS HIGHEE THAN I." 

When stormy clouds gather, as gather they must 

For all who inhabit frail temples of dust ; 

When tempests roar madly, and winds wildly rave, 

Oh ! who shall be able to succor and save ? 

Above the wild moan of the billowy sea 

A sweet whisper drifts through the darkness to me ; 

And I fear not the waves, nor the storm-voices high, 

But steer for " the Eock that is higher than I." 

When doubt, like a vampire, shall prey on the heart, 
And force the sweet spirit of faith to depart; 
When lips dumb with anguish can murmur no prayer, 
And eyes, seared and tearless, are dim with despair, 
Oh ! who shall apply the soft balm of relief? 
And who shall afford sweet surcease of grief? 
Through clouds of despair I still dimly descry 
The Eock, the dear Eock that is higher than I. 

When weary and sick with the turmoil of life, 
" The fever called living," the unequal strife, — 
The longing for rest through the wearisome day. 
And the perils unseen that crowd round the way, — 
Oh ! whose hand shall steady the footsteps that fail? 
And whose love shall brighten the lips that are pale? 
Though fainting and weary, " on God I'll rely," 
And rest in the Eock that is higher than I. 

When Death, from the caverns of Sheol, shall come 
And woo me with lips that are ghastly and dumb ; 
When over my pulses he breathes a cold chill, 
And bids the quick heart cease to pulsate and thrill; 
When over the day comes the shadow of night. 
And earth fades away from my wavering sight, 
I'll not fear the waves, though they roll mountain high, 
But cling to " the Eock that is higher than I." 

22* 



262 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 



GOD KNOWS BEST. 

God knows best why some pathways 
Are strewn with roses bright and fair ; 

While others walk through thorny wilds, 
And dreary deserts bleak and bare. 

He knows best why o'er some lives 
Threatening tempests darkly rise ; 

While others know no cloud nor storm, 
But drift beneath unclouded skies. 

He knows best why adverse winds 

Shriek round some barques in maniac glee ; 

While others float, with breezes fair. 
Upon an ever-tranquil sea. 

He knows best why spectral want 
Sits ghoul-like by some tables bare ; 

While others, set with costliest plate. 
Are heaped with rich and dainty fare. 

He knows best why some recline 
On couches made of softest down ; 

While others have but beds of straw 
To rest their weary frames upon. 

He knows best why from some homes 
The fairest flowers soonest fade. 

And, clothed in death's cold, bridal robes. 
Beneath the daisies white are laid. 

He knows best why some, amid 

Life's changing scenes, alone must stand. 
With none to guide the wear}^ feet, 

Or lend a kindly, helping hand. 



THE PATH THAT LIES BEFORE, 

He knows best what secret grief 

Gives birth to many a gleeful strain ; 

What mirthful words, what winsome smiles, 
Are borne of some deep, hidden pain. 

He knows best what each heart needs, 

Of trial, or of sorrow here. 
To fit it for the mansions fair 

Of a brighter, happier sphere. 

Oh ! God knows best how much of pain 
Our hearts may bear, and yet not break ; 

If slight, or great, we'll take it all. 
And bear it bravely for His sake. 

'Twill matter not, in after-years. 

When o'er our breast the grave-mould lies, 
How much of pain we found along 

The path that led us to the skies. 

Then bear it bravely ; God knows best ; 

He will not let the tried heart break ; 
The cross will win the brighter crown 

If meekly borne for His dear sake. 



263 



THE PATH THAT LIES BEFOEE. 

The path that lies before ! Where doth it tend ? 
What length of days mark off the milestones of the 
way? 
What lies within its mist-enveloped aisles. 

And waits beyond the pillars of the luminous day? 
Ah ! who shall say ! The reverent bard declares 
"'Tis better not to know." The dear God's love 
shall say 
Where it doth tend, — what lies within its maze, — 
What length of days shall set the milestones of the 
way! 



264 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

And though I sing with reverent bard, 

"'Tis better not to know,"— "I would not, if I 
might,"— 
One little wish, that's e'en a wistful prayer. 

Waits through the glow of day, the hush of sombre 
night, 
And I would, if but I might, see down the coming 
years 
And wrest from out their heart one secret I would 
find, — 
Better the certainty that brings to bay, 

Than the hurt and canker of a sorrow undefined. 



The path that lies before I could tread with lightsome 
heart, 
^e'er asking where it tendeth, nor what within it 
lies. 
If so I knew one shadow would never lift its hand 
And lay its blight and mildew on the only hope I 
prize. 
But ah ! I may not know it! God gives us but to see 
One step before us as we wend our way along life's 
shore ; 
And we must wait to know if joyance blooms within, 
Or sorrow waits to shadow the path that lies before ! 
1887. 



"THE HOME OF THE SOUL." 

" The home of the soul," — oh ! sing it for me I 

That beautiful song of the home far away. 
While the hand of the night presses close on the breast 

Of the feverish, pain-wearied day. 
That beautiful home, — ah ! 'tis blessed to know 

It holds neither sorrow, nor sickness, nor care ] 
That the 3'ears of a gaugeless eternity roll 

Unshadowed by tempest, or pain, or despair. 



''THE SMILING CITV." 265 ! 

1 

Ah ! sing it for me, dear friend of my heart ! j 

Sit close by my pillow, and gather my hand I 

Within the soft clasp of your cool, quiet palm, I 

While softly you sing of that beautiful land ; 
For the pain-wearied days have wasted my strength, 

The feverish nights have abetted the days. 

Till, weary and weak, I but lie still and long \ 

For the beautiful rest that shall bide always. j 



And the beautiful song that I ask you to sing 
Seems ever the echo of heavenly strains, 

And the pillar of cloud and the pillar of fire 
That lead to the heart of the heavenly plains 

Then sing it again, oh ! friend of my heart! 
Sing softly, and gather my feverish palm 

Close, close in the clasp of your cool, quiet hand 



And the song and the touch shall bring comfort and ] 
calm. \ 

1887. i 



"THE SMILING CITY."* 

Fair as the dream of an artist soul 
Sleeps, where the blue waves rock and roll, 

An Island Empire, guarded 
North and South by the Sea's strong might, 
East and West by its billows bright, — 

From the outside world long-warded ! 

Eich and rare are its hoarded stores ; 
Golden-fair are its guarded shores. 

Its sun-bright plains and mountains; 
Its peopled valleys smile between 
The purple hills and crystal sheen 

Of summer-gladdened fountains. 



* Kioto, a city of Japan, second in size to Tokio. The in- 
habitants call it " Smiling City." 



266 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. \ 

And where Arashi lifts his face, .: 

Sun-baptized with o'ercomely grace, 1 

The " Smiling City" nestles ; \ 

And when the Spring-time's mystic loom ! 
Weaves snowy flecks of odorous bloom, 

Drinks life from golden vessels. ' 

Fair Kamo winds its rippling tide, ; 

A silver ribbon smooth and wide ; 

The " Smiling City" presses 
Where the emerald banks dip low, j 

And kisses back the rippling flow ! 

With tenderest caresses. ! 

When evening shadows fold their wings ; 

Above the west, where daylight clings 

In farewell, loving, tender, " 

The stars take up their nightly thrall, t 

The silver moonlight covers all { 

With veil of mystic splendor ; j 

And far above fair Kamo's stream • 
The glow-worms set their tapers' gleam 

Like diamond dust wind-wafted ; i 

The " Smiling City" sleeps below, \ 

Scarce dimmer in the paler glow : 

Than in the light sun-grafted. 

Oh ! far, fair Isles of the sunny strand 

That turned so long from the stranger's hand, i 

Thou'rt fair as painter's dreaming ! ; 

Thy verdant vales and mountains fair, ■ 

Thine azure streams and slumbrous air, '\ 

Have all the poet's seeming ! j 

Oh ! far, fair Isles of the sea serene ! 

Oh ! " Smiling City" clothed in sheen ! ■ 

May life's unwritten story ! 

Cull from thee and thine some leaf, 
Some page of light, some golden sheaf. 

For the Father's greater glory ! 
May 29, 1887. 



RIKA MATSUDA. 267 



EIKA MATSUDA.* 

In a far-away Isle of the sunny sea, 
Whose whispering waves croon the melody 
That soothes the day to its slumbering rest, 
And rock the night on their quivering breast, 
A little maid, with the quaint, dark face 
Of her island clime and her island race, 
Beaches her beautiful, tawny hand 
To the loving hearts of a loving land, — 
The dear, little Eika Matsuda ! 

Dear little Pearl of the wonderful Isles, 
Thy setting of gold is the children's smiles, — 
The children's smiles that the alchemist Love 
Turned into gold for the mintage above. 
Dear little Pearl that we claim as our own ! 
Fair little Star of the nether zone ! 
Glad are the hearts that are waiting the day 
Whose zenith shall brighten each step of thy way. 
Our own little Eika Matsuda. 

Wee little hands are the beautiful wings 
That send song- words where our Eika sings, 
An Island Bird in the far, fair " home" 
Whose crest looks out o'er the billows' foam. 
Blest are the hearts that are learning to-day 
How much they may brighten another's way ! 
And shall they stop with this mystical Key, 
This Pearl of the Isles, this Bird of the Sea, 
This dear little Eika Matsuda ? 



* A little Japanese girl being educated in the " Missionary 
Home" in Japan ; the cost of education being defrayed by " Chil- 
dren's Day" contributions. 



268 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. , 

lN"ay, nay, dear hearts of the loving land ! . 
Open the palm of each dear, wee hand. 

Send from the heart of your own loved homes ; 
Treasures of love for some heart that roams 

Eayless, perhaps, though the noon sun pours i 

Billows of light from our temple doors. | 

Afar, anear, let us gather God's pearls j 

As we wrought to gather our girl of girls, j 

Our own little Eika Matsuda ! ' 

May 29, 1887. ^ 



THE MASTEE'S WOEKEES. 



They of the good and great heart, 

Of the warm and loving hand, 
Who sail away o'er the breast of the sea 

To a strange and distant land, 
Seeking to sow in the Master's fields 

The golden grain of His love, — 
They are the Master's gleaners glad 

For the " harvest home" above. 



They of the soft and gentle eye, 

Of the manner sweet and kind. 
Who seek in the Master's lowlier courts 

His " maimed" and " halt" and " blind ;" 
Who leave on the heart of a shame-wrecked soul 

The dew of a pleading prayer, — 
They are the Master's loving guides 

To the mansions sweet and fair. 

They of the low and tuneful voice, 

Of the tender touch and smile. 
Who sit by the weary, feverish couch, 

And the suffering hours beguile ; 



JEHOVAH-JIREH. 269 

i 

Who give the cup of water cold, ] 

To the stranger by the way, — | 

They are the Master's ministers j 

To the kingdom far away. ; 

They of the light and gladsome heart, 

Of the strong and buoyant frame, ; 
Setting the best of their life apart 

For the Master's use and name, ' 

They of the fair, white, shining soul, ; 

Of the genius-dowered mind, ,i 

Are workers all, that in God's own time ' 

Love's recompense shall find. 

But of all His workers, think I they 3 

Who live " shut in" from the world's bright face i 
Will win, in the beautiful after-world. 

The fairest and dearest place. 
If so there be in the far, fair world, 

Near the Father's loving breast, ,1 

Higher and lower degrees of bliss, i 

And surer and perfecter rest. ' 

For the patient hands that do their stint, 

Loyally, lovingly, while they wait, 

" Shut in" from the beautiful outer world ' 

^Y stress of a sore estate, ■ 

Will surely attain the perfecter rest, ; 

If perfecter rest there be j 

Where all is perfect and fair and blest, | 

In the home by the crystal sea. | 
1887. 



JEHOYAH-JIEEH. ; 

Worn with much and weary waiting, , 

Sick with fear and wordless pain, j 

All the days were grown too weary \ 

For a song with glad refrain ; \ 

23 i 



270 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

All the nights were long with waking ; 

Unrefreshed the mornings gray- 
Came across the Orient billows, 

With the banners of the day 
All unfurled, and floating wide 
O'er the opal-crested tide. 



With the wordless pain unresting, I 

Sought I silently to find, j 

If but scantily, some comfort j 

For the troubled heart and mind. \ 

In the steady, amber lamp-light, \ 

Near at hand, my Bible lay, — j 

The little crimson Bible ; 

I had won, one golden day, j 

As reward full fairly earned \ 

For a childish task well learned. 1 

^ 
] 

In the stead}^ amber lamp-light \ 

Came the thought of childhood's years, j 

And I turned the yellow pages '. 

Through a mist of unshed tears. 
Ah ! the present seemed so weary ! 

And the future stretched awa}^, j 

With a veil of dim foreboding i 

Shutting out each golden ray^, — 

Each golden, gladsome ray ' 
Of a fairer, gladder day ! 

In the steady, amber lamp-light. 

Through the mist of unshed tears, i 

Caught I one fair word of promise ' 

For the trouble-wearied years. - ; 

Like a burst of golden sunshine ' 

O'er a day worn out with storm, I 
O'er my soul " Jehovah-jireh" 

Wove a gladness sweet and warm, — -. 
Let the storm sweep wild and wide, 

The Lord Jehovah will provide 1 | 

" i 



THE VALLEY OF REST. 271 

Oh ! promise rare ! " Jehovah-jireh I" 

Through the night it soothed to rest ! 
And above the days' dark shadows 

Wove a curling silver crest ! 
Let me trust ! " Jehovah-jireh !" 

Be the present what it may, 
Be the presage of the morrow 

Big with sorrow and dismay ! 
Be the tempest wild and wide, 
The Lord Jehovah will provide ! 

Oh! promise rare! "Jehovah-jireh I" 

Father, help me, that I may 
Trust the fulness of a promise 

That shall comfort bring alway. 
Help me find, among the shadows, 

Food and raiment for each day ; 
Hope and solace for each heart-ache 

That o'erclouds the onward way, — 
Trusting whatsoe'er betide. 
The Lord Jehovah will provide ! 
November 17, 1887. 



THE YALLEY OF EEST. 

There's a beautiful vision that wakes with the day, 

And lives through the dreams of the night, 
Of a wonderful valley that lies far away. 

Shut in from the tempest's despite, — 
A beautiful valley with cool, limpid streams, 

And meadows in emerald dressed ; 
And, down in the silence of unbroken dreams, 

I call it the Yalley of Eest ! 

And this beautiful valley fades never away ! 

Fades never its wonderful sheen ! 
For the light of a marvellous sun alway 

Streams down o'er its meadows of green. 



272 PASSION-FLOWERS AND ALMOND-BUDS. 

Not heat of the Summer, nor tempest, nor cold, 
Nor aught can its sweetness molest; 

For the ""Peace of God," like a river of gold, 
Flows on through the Yalley of Eest 1 

In this wonderful valley there's fulness of joy, — 

Nor hunger, nor thirst, any more ! 
And the passions of earth may not dim nor alloy 

Its bliss with the pain gone before ! 
O'er the light of its day falls no shadow of night, 

Falls no cloud o'er its fair tranquil breast. 
For the " Love of God," like a river of light. 

Flows on through the Yalley of Eest ! 

In the Yalley of Eest there comes never more 

The breaking of love-welded bands. 
The longing of heart and the sorrowing sore 

For the falling away of hands! 
For the Father pours softly his oil and his balm 

On grief-wounded spirit and breast ; 
And lies in the bliss of an untroubled calm, 

The beautiful Yalley of Eest ! 

In the beautiful Yalley of Eest I bide ! 

What matters the tempest o'erpast? 
What matters the wrath of the crossed-over tide ? 

I am happy, and safe at last ! 
Under the wings of the Saviour I fold 

My wings, — and my hands on His breast, — 
And thus find peace by the rivers of gold 

In the beautiful Yalley of Eest ! 
November 19, 1887. 



OSMUNDA LEAVES AND LUPINE 
SPRAYS. 



OSMUNDA LEA YES AND LUPINE SPKAYS. 

Come, drink of the wine of the Osmunda leaves, 

And drink ye the dew of the fresh Lupine sprays, 
If so ye would dream in the gold-curtained eves, 

And wander with wings through the opaline days. 
I've drank of their chalice, filled — filled to the brim, 

And wander at will through a wonderful realm ; 
I lean o'er the mystic horizon's far rim. 

And gather the splendors the sea would o'erwhelm. 

And ever and aye I can gather at will 

The brightest and best of the gifts of the air, — 
The music that calms and the visions that thrill 

The pulse of the day with the heart-beat of prayer. 
And if ye would dream in the gold-curtained eves. 

And wander on wings through the opaline days, 
Come, drink of the wine of the Osmunda leaves, 

And drink ye the dew of the fresh Lupine sprays. 
1887. 



AUTUMN DAYS. 

Within the glorious, dreamful haze 
Of Autumn-burnished glories, 

October fills the misty days 
With sweet, pathetic stories. 

23* 273 



274 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

I watch the stately, swaying pines, 

Across the mingled splendor 
Of sumac boughs and purple vines, 

And mist-lights soft and tender. 

How far away they seem to-day ! 

The distance broadens, — lengthens, — 
The children's voices float away, — 

My spirit greatens, strengthens ; 
I half forget the days' set round 

Of duties, pains, and pleasures. 
Commingled thought, and sight, and sound. 

Blend in such soothing measures. 

Across the fields my wistful gaze 

Turns ever fond and tender. 
And waits within the golden haze 

Of sunset-woven splendor 
To gather up the days' sweet lights, 

Their passion-dreams and hopings, 
To satisfy the hungry nights 

Amid their wayward gropings. 

I hold the days so sweet, so fair, 

I cannot gauge their sweetness, 
Nor measure half their treasures fair 

By years of garnered fleetness ; 
For tender thoughts crown all the days 

With wealth of royal beauty. 
And work is loyal, pain is praise. 

And life is sweetest duty. 
1874. 



GOLDEN SUMMER 

Oh, golden Summer, rich and tender. 
Wealth of light and glad perfume. 

Bonny bairn of Mid-June splendor, 
Weanling of her glorious bloom I 



GOLDEN SUMMER. 275 | 

O'er the fields thy bannered glories | 

Surging dreamily and slow, " 

Haunt us with enchanted stories, 
Dreamful songs, and voices low. 

'Neath the sky's cerulean brightness \ 

Cloud-wrought shallops slowly glide ; \ 

Cloud-built islands fleck with whiteness i 

The "Upper Deep's" resplendent tide; ■ 

Cloud-built cities, temples, altars, ^ 

Strange, mysterious shapes and signs, : 
Greet us till the full heart falters 

'Neath the dreams such love enshrines. \ 

Oh ! earth is royal 'neath thy splendor ! 

Language fails and art is vain 
To deftly limn or fitl}^ render ; 

The charms of thy voluptuous reign : 
We only watch with hearts grown tender, 

Touched with awe and mute delight. 
The weird kaleidoscopic splendor 

Drifting o'er thy fields of light. . 

And we list the weird sweet story j 

With a fond, regretful sigh ; \ 
Why should all this radiant glory 

Only bloom to fade and die ? ; 

But the fiat is eternal ; ! 

Beauty rings its own death-knell ! i 

Only lasts God's love supernal, — i 

Golden Summer, fare thee well ! I 

Oh, golden Summer, rich and tender. 

Wealth of light and glad perfume, | 

Bonny bairn of Mid-June splendor, ■ 

Weanling of her glorious bloom. 
Like a sweet, prophetic story, i 

Culled from songs of ancient rhyme, j 

Floats thine evanescent glory 

Down the shoreless tide of Time I 



276 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 



EOYAL JUNE. 

Oh ! royal June ! Oh ! fair, glad time ! 

Sweet treasure-trove of all the year I 
I weave your splendors into rhyme 

And bind them with a wistful tear. 
Too glad to hold your treasures scant, 

You give them in profusion rare, — 
The amber sunbeams, scarce aslant, 

Like jewelled arrows cleave the air. 

The earth laughs out in joyous pride ; 

The soft sky slumbers like a sea 
Of waveless azure, boundless, wide, — 

Fit emblem of Eternity ! 
The dear days fold their rosy palms ; 

The balmy nights glide slowly by ; 
God's sinless songsters trill their psalms 

Amid the tree-tops broad and high. 

Oh ! happy June ! Oh ! fair, glad time I 

Oh! sweet enchantress of the year! 
Your music, like a golden chime, 

Falls dreamily upon the ear. 
And over miles of emerald plain. 

And hill-slopes crowned with fairer green, 
The footsteps of your minion train 

Glow brighter with unsandalled sheen. 

I sit and watch the golden light 

Drift down athwart the waving grain, 
And ask myself, what mortal blight 

Could bring such weight of human pain 
As to o'ercloud for aye and aye 

June's royal wealth of light and bloom, 
And fold away in shadows gray 

Its living glory and perfume ? 



ROYAL JUNE. 277 j 

Oh ! happy-hearted month of song ! \ 

Oh ! happy-hearted month of bloom ! \ 

The fateful years are not so long i 

Crowned with the wealth of your perfume. 
Ah ! could I lure one deathless boon 

From tender Nature's sweet control, i 

I'd beg the happy-hearted June 

To drop her gladness in my soul, I 

And leave it nestling there for aye, { 

Sweet prophecy of happier days ] 

For grieving hearts that faltering pray I 

For strength to tread life's shadowed ways. ! 

Oh ! happy June ! Oh ! fair, glad time I ' 

Oh! sweet enchantress of the year! j 

I weave your splendors into rhyme, I 

And hold you doubly fair and dear ! I 

Whatever pain the years have brought, | 

Whatever pain they yet may bring, ] 

I count it all less dearly bought i 

Because such tender mem'ries cling ! 

About this golden, radiant time, j 

This royal-hearted month of June, — < 

So rich with hints of scented rhyme : 

And sweet sounds woven into tune ! \ 

Oh ! happy June ! Oh ! fair, glad time! 

Oh ! sweet enchantress of the year ! ! 

I weave your splendors into rhyme, I 

And hold you doubly fair and dear, — 
So rich, so fair, so sweet, so glad ! 

What heart could be so filled with care, ' 

So numbed with pain, so wholly sad, ; 

That could not find you sweet and fair ! ■ 

1876. j 



278 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 



THE YAlSriSHED YEAR 

Another year, another year, 
Has passed within the shadows drear: 
Gone, with all its smiles and tears. 
Gone, with all its hopes and fears, 
JsTever again, never again. 
To vex or please us, never again ! 

Whate'er of loss, whate'er of gain, 
Whate'er of joy, whate'er of pain, 
The Old Year brought to each and all, 
'Tis vanished now beyond recall, — 
Never again, never again. 
To vex or please us, never again ! 

Could we live some moments o'er. 
Could we clasp some hands once more, 
Would we weep such vain, vain tears 
For the fleeting, dying years. 
That never again, never again, 
Will vex or please us, never again ? 

Oh! if some words our lips have said 
Could be forgotten, or wwsaid. 
Would the shadows seem so drear 
That close about the vanished year. 
That never again, never again. 
May vex or please us, never again ? 

If from some pages, smooth and fair. 
Some thoughts our pens have copied there 
Were blotted out or left unread. 
We'd smile to think the Old Year dead, 
And never again, never again. 
To vex or please us, never again ! 



MF BONNY BARQUE. 279 

But tears are naught, regrets are vain ; • 
The vanished years come not again ; — 
Beyond recall, 'mid shadows drear, 
The dead Year sleeps upon his bier, 

And never again, never again, i 

Will vex or please us, never again ! 



MY BONNY BAEQUE. 

My bonny barque, 

O'er the waters dark, 
Floats with a dreamy motion 

Toward the West, ' 

Where the golden crest • 

Of sunset billows gilds the ocean. 

i 

Like wings of snow, , 

The white sails glow - ' 

Within the gorgeous splendor. 

That fills the skies 

With brilliant dyes 
Half sorrowful, half tender. j 

The waves leap high, j 

And fret, and sigh, j 

With soft, regretful droning ; j 

The fitful wind j 

Lags far behind, ^ . 

Now laughing, and now moaning. * { 

Yet on, and on. 

And ever on, ■ 

My bonny barque keeps gliding, i 

Toward the mart 

My dreamful heart i 

Holds sacred and abiding. ] 



280 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

I 

For, stanch and true, | 

My gallant crew, s 

Undaunted, pull together; j 

'Neath skies of light. 

Or shades of night, ! 
In foul or sunny weather. 

Hope's watchful eyes ' 

Scan waves and skies j 

In loving patience ever ; i 

What though the storm j 

Bring dire alarm, i 

She faints, nor falters, never I I 

Love bravely stands 1 

With steady hands '{ 

Her trackless pathway steering ; 

And true alwa^^s, j 

The helm obe^^s, — j 

My barque bounds on unveering ! ] 

Faith turns her eyes, ; 

With restful sighs, \ 

Toward the soul's fair " Fields Elysian," ; 

That stretch away ! 

In endless day j 
Hope's sweet and sure fruition. 

Her eyes discern 

The lights that burn \ 

Beyond the hills terrestrial, ' 

To guide us o'er 

The rush and roar ; 

Into the port celestial. ; 

So on, and on, i 

And ever on, j 

My bonny barque keeps gliding, j 

Toward the mart .] 

My dreamful heart 
Holds sacred and abiding. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 281 

If sad my lot, 

I'll murmur not, 
God's fiat is eternal ; 

Beyond life's waves 

The sunlight laves 
The battlements supernal ! 



INDIAN SUMMEE. 

Across the fields of Autumn gold 

The burnished sunlight lingers ; 
The sumac branches glow and burn 

Beneath its radiant fingers. 
And o'er the mist-crowned hills of day 

Sweet voices, softly calling, 
Lead us where, like gorgeous pkimes, 

The Autumn leaves are falling. 

And whispering breezes softly sigh 

Athrough the purpling splendor 
Of morning dews, and noontide calms, 

And evenings warm and tender. 
And over all the restless earth 

Some mystic spell seems stealing, — 
An aftermath of Summer sheen 

Life's wistful pain revealing. 

The golden-throated songsters sing 

In fitful, mournful numbers ; 
The droning bees have furled their wings 

And sunk to honeyed slumbers. 
Only crickets, sable-clad, 

" In sickled fields are beating" 
The funeral marches of the days 

In measures faint and fleeting. 
24 



282 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

But all the world is grandly fair; 

The forests gleam and glimmer ; 
One grand mosaic of radiant dyes 

Caught in a golden shimmer, 
Too fair to last, too sweet to hold ! 

Ah! hearts grown dumb with aching! 
Some long reveille yet shall sound 

A glad and calm awaking ! 



A SEPTEMBEE SUNSET. 

Low in the "West float the banners of sunset, 

Brushing the wheels of Apollo's bright car, 
With fringes of gold, and pennants of amber, 

Broidered with pearls and a silver-white star. 
Hesperus rocks in a pinnace of silver, 

The idle oars dip with a measureless glide ; 
The gates swing ajar, and the Occident Palace 

Gleams like a vision beyond the bright tide. 

Over the fields, in their rich Autumn beauty, 

Falls like a benison all the warm light. 
Weaving a veil of its marvellous splendor, — 

A baptismal dream of tender delight ; 
And the fields in their gratitude smile and grow 
brighter ; 

The fair Autumn flowers are fairer for this. 
Oh ! wizard of Nature ! Oh I Sunset Magician ! 

Oh ! September glory of beauty and bliss ! 

Across the wide years and their wearying passions 
The dream of your splendor shall follow me on, 
Till the eyes that have smiled and the lips that have 
murmured, 
And the hearts that have worshipped are gone, — all 
gone; 



OUT ON THE SEA. 283 

But low in the West will your gold-broidered banners 
Dreamily float as they're floating to-day; 

Hesper will rock in his pinnace of silver, 

The idle oars toy with the gold-crested spray, 

And over the waves of the amber-lit ocean 

A vision of light from the portals ajar 
Gleam like a talisman weird and prophetic, 

Wrought in the blaze of a falling star. 
And others will watch as I'm watching and waiting, 

And others will gather the glory and light. 
And hold them fast as I'm holding and hiding 

Your beautiful dreams in my spirit to-night ! 



OUT ON THE SEA. 

Over the waves of a limitless sea, — 

A beautiful sea of shadow and sheen, — 
We are drifting on with a mighty fleet. 

Mid myriad islands clothed in green ; 
Their emerald beauty frets the waves, 

And hinders the white ships' onward flight 
With whispered tales of sunnier skies. 

And beckoning harbors calm and bright. 

Oh, Isles of Pleasure, emerald fair ! 

Oh, Wizard Isles of siren tales ! 
Within thy ports of vaunted peace 

How many a fair ship furls its sails ! 
Upon thy smooth and glittering strands 

How many a fair barque meets its doom ! 
And yet thy skies are soft and blue. 

Thy bowers are steeped in odorous bloom. 

Out, far out, where the wandering winds 
Fret the waves with their sorrowful wail, 

A weird, wild Island, gloomy and grand, 
Scorns the wrath of the menacing gale. 



284 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

Sterile and bleak are its craggy shores ; 

Lonely and dark are its elfin haunts, 
Save, far above, where a hovering light 

Like a lurid banner proudly flaunts. 

Oh, Isle of Ambition! Insatiate ghoul! 

Red glares thy signal-light o'er the dark waves ; 
Midst the wild haunts of thy rock-girdled shore 

Harpies are digging innumerable graves. 
Myriad ships seek thy perilous shores, 

Many are wrecked by the wrath of the wave ; 
Others sail on o'er ruin and wreck, 

O'er a Nation's tears and Liberty's grave ! 

Over the waves of a limitless sea — 

A beautiful sea of glory and gloom — 
We are drifting on with a mighty fleet 

To a happier shore or a direful doom. 
Oh! where is the shore, — Life's beautiful shore? 

We lose our way 'mid these wildering isles; 
And we turn the wheel with a weary hand, 

As we look across these trackless miles. 

Far away where the waves are crowned 

With floods of sunshine, soft and bright, 
A fair, sweet Island lifts its crest 

Above the waves' refulgent light ; 
Its shining strand is smooth and fair; 

Its peaceful harbors wide and free ; 
And, filled with breath of odorous bloom. 

The land-breeze drifts athwart the sea. 

Oh, beautiful Island ! " Heart's Content !" 

Let thy harbor-lights gleam o'er the sea ; 
Tempest-tossed ships and wind-driven barques, 

And frail little boats are seeking for thee. 
They're drifting on 'mid the emerald isles. 

Blinded and dazed by their wildering charm. 
But fond eyes turn with a restful delight 

To the beautiful land " that has no storm." 



Mr CASTLE IN SPAIN. 285 } 

We're drifting on with a mighty fleet \ 

Over the waves of an ocean vast, — 1 

Whei'e will we furl our wind-riven sails ? j 

Where will we moor our ships at the last? ' 

Will we find the " shore" midst these wildering isles, ; 

Or midst the haunts of a bleaker strand ? 
Or safe in the harbor of " Heart's Content" 

Find the long-sought "shore" in a golden land? 
1875. 



MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 1 

'Tis a beautiful Castle, so strong and so fair ; j 

Its walls are of sunshine, cemented with gold, | 

And braided with jewels of splendor untold, ! 

That shimmer like stars through the meshes of bloom ' 

I caught from the web of the Damascene loom I 

To curtain the walls of my Castle so fair. ! 

You'd think the wide floors a fairy land sward, ] 

So rich a mosaic of shadow and sheen j 
I have wrought with the help of fingers unseen. 
And oh! such a wealth of odorous bloom 
Thrills through the air of each beautiful room 

Sweet as the dreams of " Love's Mystical Bard !" < 

There are beautiful volumes of quaint, sweet lore, ; 

Prisoned in bindings of velvet and gold, i 

That deftly conceal what they fain would unfold ; | 

And I sit, spell-bound, in the mystical light j 

That opens all this to my raptured sight, ; 

And dream, and re-dream, as I read them all o'er. \ 

There are flowers, and pictures, and beautiful birds ; ] 
There are gems from the sea and gems from the mine ; i 
From the land of the larch and the land of the vine ; I 

From the sunset hills and the sunrise plains, — | 
Wherever the Goddess of Beauty reigns. 

And beautiful thoughts are coined into words. ; 

24^ i 



286 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

But, better, and sweeter than all, is this^ — 

My beautiful Castle is peopled as well ; 

'Tis the loveliest place in the world to dwell. 

And so I've gathered my dearest friends there, 

Happy to crown them with riches so rare, — 
Such ravishing beauty, such shadowless bliss. 

Only the friends that I cherish the most. 
Only the friends that are dearest and best. 
Bide with me aye in my beautiful " Eest." 
Deceit cannot mar our infinite trust; 
Pride cannot dim, nor calumny rust 

Faith's mystic escutcheon, — Love's triumph and boast. 

You never can guess what a pure, happy life 
Flows on in this wonderful Castle of mine ; 
There's no time to grieve, or to fret, or repine ; 
Each heart is so glad, each friend is so leal, 
There's naught to regret, and naught to conceal, 

In such a love-guarded and innocent life. 

It makes me forget half the passion and pain 
Of a life that must cope with an adverse fate ; 
Must learn to relinquish, submit, and to wait, 
Patient, unmurmuring, and smiling, forsooth. 
Though the mould rests damp on our idols of youth, 

And we know we have gathered our garlands in vain. 

You asked where I live, and I answer you thus ; 
Though I see the incredulous smile 
You try to suppress as you listen the while ; 
And you think, " What a visionist, fond and devout, 
But visionist still, without shadow of doubt, 

Or else a frail victim of weird incubus." 

But I do live there at my Castle in Spain, — 
Such a beautiful Castle, so strong and so fair ; 
So crowded with fragrance, and beauty so rare ; 
Where only the friends that are dearest and best 
Abide with me aye in my beautiful " Eest," 

My beautiful home, — my Castle in Spain ! 



STAR-ELVES. • 287 



"THE GLOEYOF THE SUJSTSET HILLS.' 

Along the sweet year's amber slope 

A burnished splendor softly lies; 
An aftermath of golden hope, 

Of thermal gleams and brilliant dyes; 
An Indian-Summer dream of light, 

An after-glow of daffodils 
On pansy-purple plain and height, — 

Oh, "Glory of the Sunset Hills!" 

Oh, roseate sea of new-born light ! 

Oh, matin glory of the East ! 
Levantine splendors own your might 

And crown you prophet, king, and priest ! 
But weary hearts think most of rest, — 

The great Earth's spirit throbs and thrills 
Beneath the splendor of the West, — 

"The Glory of the Sunset Hills!" 



STAE-ELYES. 



The fair, white Day has dropped asleep 

Within the cradle of the West ; 
The South Wind sings her lullaby, 

And Hesper guards her dreamless rest ; 
And out upon the shining plains 

The star-buds ope their petals fair; 
And star-elves cull their shining leaves 

And twine them in their sheeny hair. 

And of their stamens' ghttering gold 
They weave a stair of wondrous light, 

And hang it in the pulsing air, — 
A " Jacob's Ladder" of the night. 



288 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. ; 

And up and down this shining stair i 

Their twinkling footsteps softly glide, — ; 

A jewel here, a flow'ret there, — i 

Where'er a gem or flower may hide. - 

The Queen-Moon watches from her throne J 

The star-elves at their bonny pranks, • 

And turns to Hesper in the West, ! 

And smiles on him her graceful thanks ; ! 

And he smiles back, but turns his face \ 

Once more towards the sloping West; 
The sweet Day slumbers in his care, i 

And he must guard her dreamless rest. 

And so the star-elves come and go, j 

Softly up and down their stair ; | 

Weaving dreams of beauty here, j 

Dropping gleams of beauty there. 
And I list with wistful thoughts 

To their foot-falls soft and fleet, 
As I twine their weird elf-dreams - 

Into stories quaint and sweet ; ' 

For you know I learned to read, ] 

In the childish days of yore, j 

All the elfin signs and symbols j 

Of their weird, enchanting lore ; I 

And I feel their viewless presence ! 

In 'the palpitating air ; 
And I hear their viewless footsteps 

Up and down their golden stair. 
1877. 



SWIFTLY THE LOJSTG DAYS. 

Swiftly the long days swept adown 
The burnished pathway of the West, 

Till, wan and pale, dear Summer lay 

With palms crossed meekly on her breast, 



SWIFTLY THE LONG DAYS. 289 

Death's seal upon her fragrant lips, 

His stillness 'mid her amber hair, 
Death -lights within her glorious eyes, 

Death-dews upon her forehead fair. 

Fair Autumn stood beside her couch 

With sad, yet proud and royal mien ; 
Dear Summer raised her dying hands 

And crowned her sad-eyed sister queen. 
And 'mid her gold-red hair she dropped 

Fire-opals set in gleaming gold, 
And decked her form in regal robes, 

With rubies in each shining fold. 

Ah I Summer vales, whj^ mourn ye so 

The burial of your fair-haired queen ? 
Adown the purpling slopes there comes 

A spirit clad in radiant sheen, 
'Tis Indian Summer, — from her eyes 

Your dead love smiles again on you ; 
The South Wind wanders as of old 

The radiant forests through and through ; 



And over all the glad, glad earth ] 

She stretches forth her gracious hand, j 

And lo ! the hills, and woods, and plains j 

Enrobed in regal beauty stand. j 

So bright that all the Summer sheen ! 

Fades into lines of duller hue 
Beside the rich and varied scenes \ 

That panoramic rise to view. 

Then why mourn so for faded lights, ] 

When brighter, truer stars arise j 

From out the veiling mists and clouds • 

That lie athwart our later skies ? j 

Let the " dead past bury its dead" i 

Out from our hearts and thoughts away ; i 

Let us cherish the buds that are blossoming now, ^ 

And love the friends that are true to-day ! \ 



290 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 



m THE FIEBLIGHT. ! 

Where the firelight glinting falls 

On the dark, wainscoted walls, j 

Shapes fantastic come and go j 

In the soft, uncertain glow ; -j 

Now like fairies, quaintly clad, i 
Now like mourners weeping sad; 

Still they come, still they go, 

In the soft, uncertain glow. | 

; 

Now the walls are oceans wide, : 
Where the white ships proudly ride; 
And methinks I hear the roar 

Of the waves upon the shore ; ; 

And the mermaids' song comes low j 

As the shadows come and go, — 1 

Come and go, come and go, ! 

In the soft, uncertain glow. j 

Now again the scene has changed, ! 

And upon the walls are ranged 

Temples grand and castles fair; ; 

Mountains clothed with verdure rare ; 

Yalleys flecked with sparkling rills ; \ 

Lovely glades and sun-crowned hills; . 

Still they come, still they go. 

In the soft, uncertain glow. 

Now the firelight leaps up bright ; \ 

And the walls are fields of light 

Where the flowers nod and smile, 

Blushing shyly all the while ; ; 

And the South Wind whispers low i 

While the shadows come and go, — j 

Come and go, come and go, J 

In the soft, uncertain glow. i 



FANTASIA. 291 



Now again the firelight wanes, 
And a sight vaj gaze enchains, 
Strangely sweet, and real, too, 
As I catch the love-light true 
From the eyes, upon the wall. 
That were hid beneath the pall 
Years ago ; oh ! long ago ! 
Ere my heart was burdened so ! 
Still they come, still they go, 
In the firelight's elfish glow. 

Now upon the walls I see 

Faces very dear to me ; 

Faces young, and faces old. 

Delicate, and firm of mould ; 

Eyes of brown, and eyes of blue ; 

Soft brown locks, and silver, too ; 
Still they come, still they go. 
In the soft, uncertain glow. 

Thus, when weary, sad, distrait^ 
Straight I put the lamp away. 
And within the firelight's glow 
Watch the shadows come and go, 
Till beneath their mystic sway 
Each sad thought is swept away, 
And sweet fancies come and go 
In the soft, uncertain glow. 



FANTASIA. 



Yesternight, while the Sorcerer Sleep 
Fettered my limbs with his witcheries deep, 
In a shallop of gold, o'er a glittering sea. 
My slumberless spirit, untrammelled and free, 
Floated away in a dreamful delight. 



1 

292 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

On and on, 'mid the glittering haze, j 

The clustering sheen, the wildering maze I 

Of fair star-isles, and waveless lagoons ] 

Spun from the light of the Day's cocoons, ] 

And gemming the breast of the billowless Night. i 



Orion smiled as I softly sped by. 
But shook his head with a pensive sigh. 
And looked away where the Lady Moon, 
From the silver sheen of a sweet lagoon,"! 

Caught the mirrored light of her own fair face. 
And over the breast of the waveless tide, 
In the pensive grace of her lonely pride, 
Dropped from the clasp of her lily hands 
A shimmering veil and glittering bands 

To crown the Night with a tenderer grace. 



The Pleiad Sisters, sweet-fashioned and chaste, 
Tenderly chided my unseemly haste ; 
But I threw them a kiss, and a wave of the hand, 
And smiled, as I thought of the beautiful land, — 

The beautiful land, in the gold-lit West ; 
And on, and on, through the ghttcring haze, 
The clustering sheen, the wildering maze 
Of sweet star-isles, and waveless lagoons 
Spun from the light of the Day's cocoons, 

I steered away to its beautiful rest. 



Oh ! Sorcerer Sleep ! o'er the wildering scene 
Thou threwest the light of thy wizard sheen, 
And tempted me on, all reason despite, 
Till my heart was drunk with a subtile delight 

That was born of Hope and thy magic power ; 
And over the breast of the billowless sea 
I floated on, untrammelled and free. 
Too happy to doubt, to question or care, 
So that beside me, unsullied and fair. 

My beautiful hope bloomed but for an hour. 



CLOUD-LAND. 293 

Oh I days of desponding ! Oh ! days of despair ! j 

What matters thy burden of sorrow and care ? j 

If, when from his cavern, the Sorcerer Sleep ' 

Comes with the balm of his witcheries deep, j 

And covers thy pain with nepenthe divine ; ■ 

And over the waste of thy wearisome hours '■ 
Gathers the bloom of Love's marvellous flow'rs, 
And garlands thy pathway with blossoms of light 
Whose sweets only wake with the shadow of Night, — 

The shadow and sheen of its holiest shrine. : 

Thus, night after night, untrammelled and free, ) 

I wander away o'er a billowless sea ; | 

Too happy to doubt, to question, or care, • 

So that beside me, unsullied and fair, j 

I can gather this dream of sinless delight ; j 

For the holiest gem in the Night's dim shrine 
Is this pure and beautiful dream of mine, — 
This wonderful vision of home and rest, ; 

'Mid the marvellous sheen of the gold- lit West, 

This spirit-guest of the dreamful Night ! 



CLOUD-LAND. 



Oh ! Cloud-Land, beautiful Cloud-Land ! 

Varied and rich are thy pictured lights ; 

The cool, soft gray of thy lovely valleys, \ 

The fleecy glow of thy snowy heights, < 

Fills my heart with a dreamful glory, j 

A subtile something, wildly sweet, | 

With a dash of pain that is almost sorrow, \ 

A soft commingling strangely meet. S 

I steal a thought from the busy moments, \ 

For the busy moments will not wait, 

And I send it up through the shining arches i 

To the gilded entrance of thy gate. , 

25 ; 



294 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

Wilt thou let it in, oh ! beauteous Cloud-Land ? j 

Only a moment to rest its wings, j 

Only to touch with diviner seeming ] 

The fair, sweet dreams thy beauty brings ? ] 

Ay, let it wander for one brief moment ' 

Softly athwart thy citied plains. 

And revel and drink to full repletion > 

Where such rich beauty lives and reigns ; : 

Let it lie in the light of thy glorious temples ; \ 

Sing it to rest in thy palace halls ; ■ 

And hedge it about with the molten glory \ 

That Phoebus throws on thy burnished walls. ] 

J 

And I shall work with a sweeter patience, i 

Knowing, at last, thou'lt send it down, 
Touched and clothed with divinest beauty. 

Graced with light, and a royal crown. 

And I shall forget life's pain and passion, ; 

The joy and fret of its daily way, J 

As I catch the strains of the sweet cloud-music ] 

Drifting down through the arches gray. i 

< 

Oh ! beautiful Cloud-Land, fair, sweet Cloud-Land I I 

Yaried and rich are thy pictured lights! 
Would I might gather the wildering beauty 

That sleeps for aye on thy snowy heights. 
Would I might gather the wildering music 

That throbs and swells through thy temples fair, 
To win, and hold through the wild, dim future, 

Soothed and blessed by its melody rare. 

Oh ! beautiful Cloud-Land, fair, sweet Cloud-Land ! I 

Dear are the dreams I gather from thee, i 

As down the steps of a shining stairway ' 

My beautiful Thought comes back to me, 

Touched and warmed with divinest beauty, i 

Clothed and crowned with divinest sheen, i 

Rarest gems of the clime ethereal, ■ 

Gifts of the Cloud-Land's radiant Queen. j 



SHADO WS. 295 

And I pause to catch the wildering music 

Floating down from thine unseen choir ; 
And my heart beats time to the wild, sweet measure 

^olus wakes from his viewless lyre. 
Oh ! beautiful Cloud-Land, fair, sweet Cloud-Land ! 

Dear are the dreams I gather from thee, 
As down the steps of a shining stairway 

My beautiful Thought comes back to me. 
1875. 



SHADOWS. 



The Shadows are cannie people \ 

That visit me every day, 

When the aspens are dusky with evening j 

And daylight has melted away ; ■ 
They lurk in the dimmest of corners, 

They hide 'neath my very chair, 
Then creep away by the windows, 

And up o'er the dim, old stair. '^ 

Now flitting along the ceiling, ! 

Now dropping behind the bed ; : 

Now kissing the friendly dial, I 

Now touching my very head. i 

And I love these cannie people, ! 

These elf-folks brown and gray, — \ 
These sweet, quaint friends of Twilight 

That visit me every day. 

And I love to watch the trailing 

Of their robes adown the stair, I 

Wben the dusky Queen of Twilight j 

Unbinds her star-gemmed hair; 3 

Or, to watch them softly stealing \ 

Up and down the dim, old walls, ! 

When the flames burn low, to listen ; 

To the wood-gnomes' smothered calls. J 



296 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

Ah ! I love these cannie people ! 

These elf- folks brown and gray ! 
When the long, long day is over, 

And the work is done away, 
And I sit, with tired hands folded, 

Death-fashion, on my breast, — 
Tired feet grown still at evening, — 

Tired heart that fain would rest. 

Then the Shadows gather round me. 

Bringing fancies, fairy- wrought. 
From the sunny bowers of Dreamland, 

Folding up some tender thought. — 
Bringing dreams so long, long buried, 

I could never find their graves. 
Were it not that these quaint Shadows 

Ken where each willow waves. — 

Bringing hopes that richly blossomed, — 

But the fruit-time never came ; — 
Bringing leaves that never circled 

Faith's pure brow, and stainless name; — 
Bringing visions sweet and holy 

From fond Mem'ry's fair, wide halls. 
Where dear childhood's pictured glories 

Hang upon the burnished walls ! 

Bringing — oh ! I could not tell you 

Half the wondrous, wondrous things 
That the Shadows bring, each Twilight, 

Folded 'neath their dusky wings. 
But I love them, love them always, — 

Sweet, quaint friends, whose tender ways 
Change the tired heart's weary pining 

Into thoughts of prayer and praise. 



I 
A UTUMN. 297 



AUTUMN. 

Over the length of the Autumn fields i 

Billows of sunshine quivering lie ; j 

I can almost gather the tremulous mist j 

That reaches down from the dreamy sky. i 

Ah ! would I might gather it into my soul, \ 

And prison its subtile presence there, ; 

To keep and hold through gathering years, — • 

A talisman sure, a solace rare ! 

Oh ! beautiful Autumn, wizard king! i 

Under the sway of thy sceptred hand 
We wander abroad, like elfin folks 

Through the dazzling haunts of Fairyland. 

Jewels of flame creep over the hedge; ■ 

Banners of gold o'ershadow the trees ; i 

And over the fields, like rivers of wine, I 

The purpling grasses rock in the breeze. \ 

Oh ! beautiful earth, so wonderful fair, j 

Crowned with the wealth of such royal light, i 

From the fairy grot in the sylvan dell | 

To the stately mountain's purple height. j 
Over my soul sweeps a mystical spell. 

Some elfin charm from the wizard shrine, | 

Born of the Autumn's subtile touch, j 

The flush and glow of its light divine. ] 

And over the years that slumbering lie i 

Within the crypt of the lovely past. 

And over the years that lie beyond ; 

The unknown ocean, dim and vast. 

Ever thy wizard sheen shall hold ; 

Its opaline glory, soft and fair, i 

Spite of the pain that, swift and sure, 1 

Follows our footsteps everywhere. j 

25* ' 



298 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

Oh! beautiful Autumn, wizard king! 

Touch my heart with thy magical balm ; 
Worn with the pain of life's unrest, 

Thy weird song seemeth a holy psalm. 
And I watch the glow of thy tender smile 

Stealing athwart thy beautiful skies 
With wistful eyes that fain would catch 

Some golden dream of loveliest guise. 

Oh! beautiful Autumn, wizard king! 

Marshal thy clan from lakes and rills; 
I hear the call of thy clarion voice 

Drifting across the purple hills. 
And heaven and earth are full of light, — 

A quivering, golden, dreamy light. 
From the fairy grot in the sylvan dell 

To the stately mountain's purple height. 

And over my soul creeps a mystical spell, — 

Some elfin charm from thy wizard shrine, 
Born 'neath the sway of thy subtile power, 

The flush and glow of thy light divine. 
And passion and pain are but things of the past, 

Holden with scarcely a wistful sigh, 
As I stand in the glow of the marvellous light 

That covers the earth and goldens the sky. 



A EEQUIEM. 

The Eeign of the Eoses is over. 

The Queen of the Flowers is dead ! 
Come, help me to fashion a chaj)let 

To garland her beautiful head. 
Here's a leaf, and a spray of white Jasmine, 

A Violet fragrant and blue, 
A bud, and a velvet-lipped Pansy, 

Forget-me-nots, tender and true ; 



SUMMER SUNSHINE. 299 

Twine it with sorrowful Cypress, 

Lilies, with diamonds dew-set. 
And weave through the beautiful meshes 

The breath of the sweet Mignonette. 

And out, where suns linger longest. 

And dews slumber latest at morn, 
We'll carry our love-woven chaplet 

Lost fragrance and light to adorn ; 
And over the mystical burial 

Sweet Fancy shall weave her wild spell, 
And down from invisible belfries 

Air-spirits shall sound her death-knell ; 
And under the stars and the moonlight. 

The sweet, solemn hush of the night, 
We'll leave her to slumber and silence, — 

Sweet Dream of a Faded Delight ! 



SUMMER SUNSHINE. 

Oh ! Summer Sunshine, fragrance-laden. 

Fold me in your strong embrace, 
Drop upon my weary spirit 

Something of your own sweet grace ; 
For the year has been so heavy, 

Toil and care have left their pain 
On the worn and burdened spirit, 

On the wearj^ heart and brain. 

And I Avellnigh grew despairing, — 

Faith grew weak, and Hope grew faint, 
And of all life's hoarded treasures 

None seemed free from soil and taint; 
Even Love — divine, enduring — 

Drooped and faltered by the way. 
Hurt and torn with ceaseless jarring, 

Worn, and faint with sore dismay. 



300 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

And I longed with wildest longing, j 

Hushed at last to wordless prayer, ■ 

For the Summer's golden promise, i 

And its sunshine, strong and fair; ' 

For the dark days held me closely ; • 

Hurt me with their fret and pain ; i 
Chilled me with their barren bleakness ; 

Mocked me with their cold disdain. j 

Oh ! Summer Sunshine, fragrance-laden, j 

Fold me in your warm embrace, i 

Let me feel the subtile presence ■ 

Of your true and tender grace. i 
Strong, true friend, I love your coming ; 

Life regains its old sweet trust, : 

Faith grows strong, and Love triumphant ; j 

Hope lives on, and Fate is just. i 



Oh ! Summer Sunshine, fairest blessing. 

Efflux pure of Love Divine ! 
Like the Parsee's fire-wreathed altar 

Gleams the brightness of your shrine; 
Parsee-like, my face turns sunward ; 

Parsee-like, I kneel and pray, 
As the glory of your splendor 

Overspreads the plains of day. 

Soft, sweet dreams of fields elysian, 

Yallej^s clothed in living green, 
Purple hills and fadeless bowers, 

Purling streams of silver sheen ; 
Fair, bright mansions, o'er whose splendor 

Falls no shadow, broods no care ; 
Endless bliss, and life eternal. 

In a City golden-fair. 

These are pictures o'er whose brightness 
Steals no shadow, falls no stain ; 

Pictures that the warm, glad Sunshine 
Pencils on the heart and brain. 



THE BIRD'S LAMENT. 301 

Life must keep its olden sweetness ! 

Shall this beauty go for naught! 
Shall we mar the gleaming fabrics 

That the Sunshine's hands have wrought ? 

Nay, oh ! nay ! Sweet Summer Sunshine, 

Fold me in your warm embrace ; 
Let me feel the subtile presence 

Of your true and tender grace. 
Strong, true friend, I love your coming ; 

Life regains its old sweet trust ; 
Faith grows strong, and Love triumphant ; 

Hope lives on, and Fate is just ! 



THE BIRD'S LAMENT. 

Without, the sunshine, warm and sweet, 
Fills all the quiet. Sabbath street, 
And hides among the fair young leaves 
That nestle 'neath the mossy eaves ; 
But one sad thought the sunlight mars,— 
It comes to me through prison bars ! 

Soft breezes from that dear South-land — 
My own Madeira's gleaming strand — 
Murmur softly up and down 
The sunbright lanes and quiet town ; 
But this sad thought their music mars, — 
It comes to me through prison bars! 

The pure sk}^, like an azure scroll. 
Unfolds its vastness o'er the whole 
Fair scene ; yet to my stricken breast 
It brings no dream of hope nor rest. 
For oh ! one thought all beauty mars, — 
It comes to me through prison bars I 



302 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

The hands are kind that nourish me ; 
The bars are gilded^ as you see ; 
But, iron-strong, they keep me here 
From all my heart holds near and dear! 
One thought all life's sweet promise mars, — 
My tired wings beat 'gainst priso7i bars ! 

'Tis said the sweetest song that floats 
Is that which swells from prisoned throats; 
And so they keep me barred in here. 
Away from mate and nestling dear; 
Ne'er heeding how their self-love mars 
A free, glad life with prison bars. 

I sing, and sing my sweetest strain, — 
They can but know 'tis born of pain, — 
And 3^et they smile, and call me " Pet!" 
Will that make love and faith forget? 
Nay, nay; this pain each love-word mars 
When spoken through these prison bars! 

Madeira, — oh I my Father-Land ! 
My heart breaks for thy golden strand. 
Thy dewy skies, thy scented bowers, — 
Oh ! sunny land of love and flowers ! 
But why repine ? Love's deathless stars 
Can ne'er be dimmed by prison bars! 



THE SUNSET PALACE. 

I WISH I could make you see it. 

This picture so weird and fair 
That Hesper's golden fingers 

Hang mid the cloudlets there. 
There are valleys clothed with purple, 

And mountains crowned with light, 
And seas whose broad weaves glitter 

With untold splendors bright. 



THE SUNSET PALACE. 

Between the purple valleys, 

Up through the dreamy air, 
Arises, like a vision, 

The Sunset Palace fair ; 
Its walls are all of amber, 

Just deepened into gold 
About the lofty cornices. 

And dome of stately mould. 

Its windows wide are shaded 

With folds of sunset gold ; 
And fair and stately columns guard 

The doors that wide unfold. 
But one sad shadow darkens 

The sunset-picture fair; 
And I half-regret the glory 

That shrines such wild despair; 

For there, at one wide window, 

A maiden stands for aye. 
With eyes grown wild with trouble 

And lips that cannot pray; 
Her slender form is regal 

In robes of misty light; 
Her hair in golden tangles 

Falls o'er her shoulders white. 

But her dear, sweet face is palHd 

With terror, or with pain ; 
And every radiant sunset 

She keeps her vigil vain, 
Till the tender, pitying Twihght 

Comes with her star-gemmed hands 
And gently bars the window ' 

Where, grieving still, she stands. 

You smile at this weird story 

Of a stately palace fair. 
Amid the shifting splendors 

Of the cloudlets over there • 



303 



304 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAVS. 

You think it all a fancy, 

A chimera weak and vain, 
Or the strange ideal picture 

Of a warm, creative brain ; 

But could I break the shadows 

That enshroud your sceptic eyes, 
You would see the seas of amber 

In the glowing Western skies ; 
See the purple vales and mountains, 

And the Sunset Palace fair, 
With the watcher at the window 

In her vain and mute despair. 



STOEM-SPIEITS. 



Loud and long, like a battle-song. 

The North Wind sounds his bugle blast ; 
From the realms of sleet, like coursers fleet, 

The Storm-Sprites muster thick and fast ; 
I hear the beat of their unseen feet 

Through the trackless paths of stormy blue ; I 

And fierce and high, like a demon's cry. 

Each voice cheers on the maniac crew. 

They laugh and shriek o'er moorlands bleak, 

Like souls gone wild with maniac glee ; 

On the screaming gale their distant wail • 

Drifts onward, — onward to the sea ; • ' 

Then back again, like a voice of pain i 

From the clammy haunts of an ocean grave, ; 

They come with tales of wreck-strewn gales, ] 

And a dreamless sleep 'neath the stormy wave. J 

Where the emerald pines, in dusky lines, \ 

Stretch out along the dim-lit West, i 

They fret and moan like spirits lone, — 

Bereft, storm-tossed, and void of rest. i 



THE FAIR SWEET ISLE. 305 

Fierce and fleet their storm-shod feet 
Sweep o'er the fields of dreary brown ; 

And far away — storm-drenched and gray 

Their muffled footsteps haunt the town. 

They're here and there, and everywhere,— 

Lone, wandering, homeless, elfin things ! 
Their fitful cry rings shrill and high 

Above the rush of unseen wings. 
And fierce and fleet, their storm-shod feet 

With shattered tempests fill the air ; 
And broken lays of summer praise 

They change to threnodes of despair. 

Oh ! haste away, Storm-Spirits gray ! 

Back to the realms of sleet and snow ! 
Above the wail of the screaming gale 

Your phantom voices come and go. 
And the ceaseless beat of your unseen feet 

Fills my heart with a dreary pain. 
As I count the days ere the softened rays 

Of a warmer sun shall fall again. 

But loud and strong, like a battle-song, 

The North Wind sounds his bugle blast ; 
Like coursers fleet, from the realms of sleet, 

The Storm-Sprites muster thick and fast;' 
And still the beat of their unseen feet 

Fills my heart with a dreary pain, 
As I count the days ere the softened rays 

Of a warmer sun shall fall again. 



THE FAIE SWEET ISLE. 

Softly the wind of the far-away sea 

Tapped at my window last night, and sighed — 
" Far away there's a fair, sweet isle ' 

Where the sky bends low, and clear, and wide ; 
26 



306 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

And the sun-bright days are full of peace ; 

And the restful nights are long and calm ; 
And softly the breath of its beautiful bloom 

Fills all the air with a pulsing balm. 

" And the flowers thou lovest are blooming there, — 

The fairest of all sweet Flora's band, — 
And the velvet touch of their fragrant lips 

Is like the touch of a loved one's hand. 
And the wistful winds thou lovest so well 

Have found a home in the fair, sweet isle ; 
And the sun's bright glow on the rippling waves 

Is soft as the light of love's own smile. 

" Then come with me, thou'rt weary and worn ; 

Thy feet are burnt by the arid plain ; 
And the wistful years have brought to thee, 

Filled to the brim, life's chalice of pain. 
But the island fields are green and cool. 

And the island founts are clear and sweet; 
Come, cool thy lips at the sparkling fount. 

And rest on the grass thy tired feet!" 

I turned in my sleep, and woke with a sigh 

Answering the sigh of the soft, sweet wind ; 
I looked from the window, but the voice was gone. 

And only the moonlight trailed behind. 
But I lay awake with the echoing sigh 

Whispering still of the fair, sweet isle 
Nestling amid the opaline waves. 

The pictured dream of an Angel's smile ! 

And I sighed, ah me ! could I only find 

This beautiful isle of peace and calm ! 
Could rest in its pastures green and cool, 

And breathe the breath of its fragrant balm! 
For I am tired, as the sweet wind said ; 

And the softest night and the brightest day 
Are not so fair as the dear wind's dream 

Of the fair, sweet island far away! 
1885. 



THE FHCENIX." 307 



"THE PHCENIX." 

Sitting alone in the sunshine 

Of the lovely, rose-crowned May, 
Scarce heeding the zephyr's fingers 

That across my forehead stray ; 
Scarce heeding the subtile fragrance 

That dreamily fills the air. 
From the roses fair that garland 

Sweet Flora's radiant hair, 

I close my eyes, and wander, 

With Fancy for a guide, 
O'er trackless leagues of ocean 

Where Orient rivers glide. 
And Orient sands lie yellow 

Above the mummied dead, 
Who slumber on unstartled 

By living voice or tread. 

And sitting down by the ruins 
Of some temple old and grand, 

I gather the strange, weird stories 

. Of the far-famed Eastern land ; 

But the strangest one, and the wildest, 
Is that of a Moslem gray, 

Whose sandalled feet grow tardy 
As he passes by my way. 

I listen, charmed to silence 

By the old man's earnest face. 
His grave, impressive manner, 

The theme, the time, the place, — 
" Pause, traveller worn, and hear the story 

(To grave Herodotus told) 
Of a bird of marvellous beauty 

With wings of living gold, 



\ 

1 

308 OSMUNDA LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

" Which, from his distant eyrie i 

In the far Arabian land, \ 

Seeks a rest within the shadow ; 

Of Egypta's temples grand. 

When Death his proud eye darkens j 

And unplumes his golden wing, j 
And his glorious body changes 

To a dark, unsightly thing. . i 

" In a nest of myrrhic incense \ 

He awaits his coming doom, ; 

While the funereal flames creep closer | 

With their sweet but hot perfume, \ 

Till golden plume and pinion ! 

Are caught beneath their sway, i 

And the nest of myrrh and spices ■ 

Is naught but ashes gray. i 

I 

" But lo ! from the fragrant death-bed, i 

To the sun respringing high, i 

A new-born ' Phoenix' rises \ 

With plumes of brilliant dye ; I 
And new-born life is given, 

And wings of fresh delight, i 

To atone for all the darkness • 

Of the spirit's recent night. \ 



" And he plumes his radiant pinions 

And sweeps through the air once more, 
While his glad cry rings exultant 

Far above the ocean's roar. 
As back to fair Arabia 

He speeds his trackless flight. 
With swift, unerring instinct, 

And keen, unfailing sight. 

" And " I've wakened from my dreaming 

With the swift-declining day. 
And the yellow sands have vanished. 

And the Moslem old and gray 



WIND OF THE SOUTHERN SEA. 309 

Proves a brain-created phantom 
That has vanished with the sands ; 

As the golden-plumaged "Phcenix" 
Proves a myth of Eastern lands. 



WIND OF THE SOUTHEEN SEA. j 

] 

Over the vine-clad hill-tops, ' 

Across the sun- bright lea, ; 

Come with your golden promise, j 

Wind of the Southern Sea ! I 

Come with your scented fingers, j 

Your balmy breath of dew, j 

And wake the sleeping flow'rets I 

To radiant life anew. j 

Like the Prince in Silver Story, i 

Through t'he lures and golden thralls ' 
Of the Year's " Enchanted Palace," 

Steal athrough its stilly halls, ] 

Till you reach the mystic bower j 

Where our " Sleeping Beauty" lies j 

With a wealth of prisoned rapture I 

Shut within her curtained eyes. j 

And upon the soft, " warm paleness" 

Of her sweet and tender mouth 

Press your own, wine-red with rapture ; 

And the bliss-life of the South ; 

And her starry eyes shall open ■ 

To the sweetness of the day, i 

And the shadows and the stillness ; 

Shall be furled and shut away. 

And, as in the Silver Story, ; 

The happy Princess leant ; 

Upon her strong-armed lover, \ 

And followed where he went, — \ 

26* i 



310 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. \ 

i 

" Across the hills and far away, 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 

Beyond the night, across the day," j 

Through sunshine fair and shadows dim, — ' 

i 

So to your amorous guidance J 

Our " Sleeping Beauty" — Spring — J 

Shall yield her hoarded splendors, j 

And hail you Prince and King. .' 

And adown the days of brightness, 1 

And across the nights of balm, ] 

She will follow in your footsteps ■ 

To the Isles of Spice and Palm ! ! 



JUNE THE BEAUTIFUL. 

June the beautiful, fairest of all 

The royal household of the year ! 
What wizard spell, or elf-land charm. 

Could fashion jewels half so dear 
As those that deck your shining hair, 

Or pale against your wine-red lips; 
That shine upon j-our fragrant breast 

And shimmer 'neath your finger-tips? 
Not one, not one, oh, glorious queen ! 

Oh, rare, sweet Eose of Summer lands I 
We kissed the sweet May on the mouth. 

And met you with o'erhappy hands, — 
So glad to find you still unchanged, 

While change has touched with cruel haste 
So many a scene of beauty rare. 

And left it but a barren waste. 

June the beautiful, queen of the year! 

Oh, rare, sweet Eose of Summer lands I 
The flowers touch your garment's hem; 

The tall trees wait in regal bands ; 



THE ISLES OF BALM. 311 j 

The streamlets purl, the blue sea calls • 

The fretful wind from out its lair, ' 

The sunshine from Levantine deeps ' 

Creeps up the white day's shining stair, 
All, all in eager haste to lay j 

Their grateful homage at your feet. ] 

June the beautiful, queen of the year, \ 

Eose of the Summer, fair and sweet ! j 

And, over all, the tender sky, 1 

With azure more divinely fair, j 

Droops lovingly, a dream of light, — I 

A benedicite — a prayer! ! 

j 
June the beautiful, queen of the year! ! 

Bide with us yet a little while ; ! 

The dewy morns and cool, gray eves | 

Are minions of your happy smile. 
And more than half the year is sad. 

And June comes only once a year! 
And blessings dropped so far apart 

Are held a thousand-fold more dear! 
And what of pain shall be our lot. 

And what of loss shall wring the heart 
Before another June shall come. 

And kiss the roses' leaves apart ? 
June the beautiful, Eose of the world 

Of happy flowers, queen of the year ! 
Blessings dropped so ftir apart 

Are aye a thousand-fold more dear ! 



THE ISLES OF BALM. . 

" Oh ! Wind of the Sea, bring back to me, j 

From the thermal groves of the date and palm, \ 

One tender thought, love-crowned, and fraught j 

With golden dreams of the Isles of Balm,— I 



312 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

i 

" One blissful dream, whose bappy gleam j 

Sball touch these alien skies with light, 1 

This dreary scene with tenderest sheen, ) 

And these wild rocks with verdure bright. i 

" One hope to bless life's loneliness, : 

Its utter pain with sweetness blend, ' 

To keep and hold the heart's pure gold 

Untarnished to the mournful end. \ 

" Oh I Wind of the Sea, bring back to me, i 

From the thermal groves of the date and palm, 

One dream to bless life's loneliness, 

Afar from the sun-bright Isles of Balm." 

The Exile's prayer throbbed on the air 
Like the Banshee's wail of coming doom; 

But, far away, his dear home lay 
In an island vale of scented bloom. 

And cold and stark, and grim and dark, 
The wild rocks mocked his vain despair; 

No restful calm from Isles of Balm 

Ean, like a blessing, through his prayer. 

Oh, Isles of Balm, your groves of palm. 
And date-fields glowing warm and bright. 

Shall never bless life's loneliness 

With golden dreams of love and light. 

The Exile's prayer dies on the air, 

Like the last, wild note of the Banshee's wail ; 

An alien grave, where wild winds rave, 
Closes the scene, and — ends the tale I 



THE MARCH WIND. 313 



THE MAKCH WIND. 

Blow, blow, oh ! March Wind wild ! 

The clouds looked down, yestreen, and smiled, 

And whispered in my waiting ear 

A song, low-breathed and sweet to hear. 

And in the woods, grown damp and sweet, 

I hear the fall of coming feet ; 

The sun unveils his radiant face 

And folds us in a warm embrace ; 

The maple-blooms wave in the glow, 

Like crimson tassels, to and fro ; 

And everywhere a glint of green 

Is touching all with emerald sheen ; 

The lilac-buds turn to the light 

Their hidden purple flecked with white ; 

The birds, from o'er the sunny seas. 

Are coming with each scented breeze. 

Ye cannot make them stay away. 

Oh ! March Wind wild, whate'er ye say ; 

They're coming, coming, sure and fleet. 

With happy wings and eager feet ! 

The sun looks down through rifts of snow. 

And smiles to see them hurrying so. 

Within the woods, grown damp and sweet, 

I hear the fall of coming feet, 

E'ow swift, now slow with timid fears, — 

Dear April ! Child of smiles and tears ! 

Blow, blow, oh ! March Wind, blow ! 

Fill all the air with drifting snow ; 

Your blustering reign is wellnigh past. 

And sweet, warm winds are coming fast 

From over sunny, vine-clad hills. 

And odorous banks of sun-bright rills. 

Blow, blow, oh ! March Wind, blow ! 

I love yoiir song's wild rhythm and flow ; 

'Tis but a prelude, clear and strong. 

To April's tender, bird-like song. 



314 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

Oh I wayward March Wind, blow and blow! 
I almost grieve to see yon go, 
Although dear April waiting stands 
With dew-wet cheeks and fragrant hands. 
Blow, blow, oh ! clear and strong! 
The day grows old, 'twill not be long, 
And morn will kiss, with amorous sighs, 
The dear child April's dewy ej^es. 
And all forget how clear and strong 
The March Wind sang his dying song ! 



EAETH'S BEIDAL. ^ 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind ! | 

Oh, Western Wind, sing low ! j 

For Earth has doffed her sombre weeds, ! 

Love's badge of transient woe, ' 
And stands arrayed in bridal robes 

As fair as erst she wore, j 

With lips whereon the wine-red burns { 

As lovely as of yore ! j 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind! i 

Dear Western Wind, grant this! 
We must not bring one wistful sigh 

To overcloud her bliss. ■ 

She has forgotten all her pain, \ 

The dead love thrust aside i 

For this new-comer, proud and fair, j 

Who claims her as his bride. i 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind ! \ 

Oh, Western Wind, forbear ! '. 

We could not fold our love away j 

With such o'erhasty care; | 



EARTH'S BRIDAL. 3I5 

But Earth is mighty in her strength, 

And royal in her pride ; 

Each year she folds a love away, | 

Each year she stands a bride ! I 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind ! ' 

Oh, Western Wind, sing low ! i 

We only gauge our human love ■ 

By weight of heavier woe ; . I 

And Earth, though faithless to the past, ! 

Loves each new love the same, 

And royally she keeps her troth \ 

Till Time disputes her claim. ; 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind ! ' 

Sing low, oh, dear West Wind ! i 

We must not cioud Earth's bridal time I 

With dream or thought unkind. i 

Wc must not judge because our faith \ 

Can find no other shrine, \ 

No new-found love to gather up ; 

Love's wasted oil and wine. i 

i 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Wind ! ; 

Oh, Western Wind, sing low! ^ 

For Earth has doffed her sombre weeds, ; 

Love's badge of transient woe, ] 

And stands arrayed in bridal robes \ 

As fair as erst she wore ; ; 

We greet her loyally at last, i 

And love her as of yore. ; 

Sing low, sing low, oh, sweet South Windl ] 

Oh, Western Wind, sing low ! j 

Nor let one hint of hidden pain ' 

Thrill through your rhythmic flow ; , 

Our human hearts are slow to learn, ^ 

We cannot guess nor know, ■ 

But Earth stands robed in bridal sheen, — ; 

Sing low, sweet Winds, sing low ! ' 3 



316 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 



WIND OF THE SEA, COME SOFTLY. j 

Oh, Wind of the Sea, come softly, — j 

Softly athwart the starlit miles ; \ 

Bring me a dream from the far-off ocean, ; 

The world of waves and misty isles. ; 

I cannot sleep for this weary aching, ; 

This quick, hot throbbing of the brain ; ■ 

Bring me a dream from the wild, dim ocean ' 

To narcotize this surging pain. 

Down in the West, where the soft, dim twilight 

Fell asleep on the purple plains, i 

Zephja'us came from his home aerial, i 

And filled the dusk with ^olian strains; \ 

And I lingered long in the purpling splendor, \ 

Charmed to rest by the wizard chime, ' 
But saddened still by the wistful measure 

My spirit wound into wordless rhyme. 

But Zephyrus sleeps where the twilight slumbered; j 

My brain's athrob with this weight of pain ; i 

I turn my face, in its mute appealing, - 

Toward the gleam of thy mystic fane. i 

Oh, Wind of the Sea, come softly, — i 

Softly athwart the starlit miles ; 
Bring me a dream from the far-off ocean, 

The world of waves and misty isles, 

And I shall sleep, and this weary aching 

Shall drift outside my dreamful soul ; ■ 

The wild wind's song, and the wild waves' murmur, 1 

Shall guide me to a peaceful goal, — j 

So peaceful that the morrow's turmoil i 

Cannot mar its blissful rest, — \ 

Cannot blur the soft, sweet picture, ■ 

The wild Sea's dream, — the Wind's bequest. ■ 

i 



RAIN, AND WIND, AND CLOUDS. 317 

Oh, Wind of the Sea, come softly ! 

Softly, softly, o'er my brow, 
Let me feel thy cool, damp fingers ; 

I'm so worn and weary now ! 
Oh, Wind of the Sea, come softly, — 

Dear, true mentor, mystic friend I 
Softly, softly, — ocean splendors 

With my dream-wrought fancies blend ! 
1877. 



EAIlSr, AND WIND, AND CLOUDS. i 



Eain, and wind, and clouds ! 

Clouds, and wind, and rain ! 
Oh ! for a glint of azure sky, 

A sunlit, flowery plain, 
In lieu of all this sombre scene, ! 

This dreary stretch of brown, • j 

From the line of the silver sea 

To the far-ofi*, noisy town ! j 



Wind, and clouds, and rain ! 

Eain, and clouds, and wind ! 
Oh ! for a burst of Summer song 

From the dross of pain refined. 
In lieu of all these requiem notes. 

These hints of a weird despair 
That tremble along the wind-harps' strings. 

And burden the mist-filled air ! 

Clouds, and rain, and wind ! 

Wind, and rain, and clouds ! 
Oh ! for a dash of Angel-wings 

Athwart the veiling shrouds ; 
Oh I for a sweep of Angel-robes 

Adown the dreary day. 
In lieu of all this mist and chill. 

This arch of riftless gray I 
27 



318 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. : 

Eain, and wind, and clouds! : 

Clouds, and wind, and rain ! [ 

Oh ! days of dreariest shadows ! i 

Oh ! nights of gloom and pain ! j 

Over the mist-veiled mountains, | 

Out on the sobbing bay, I 

The wind and rain are holding j 

High revelment to-day ; 

And the clouds droop low their pinions, i 

Till, wreathed with blinding mist, | 

They fleck the pulsing billows, j 

With troubled amethyst; \ 

And over the dreary meadows, { 

The pastures dank and gray, ! 

Like giant birds of passage, j 

They steal their noiseless way. ", 

Eain, and wind, and clouds ! 

Clouds, and wind, and rain ! ' 

Oh ! for a glint of azure sky, 

A sunlit, flowery plain, 
In lieu of all this sombre scene. 

This stretch of mottled brown. 
From the line of the silver sea 

To the far-off busy town! 
November, 1878. 



THE PALACE OF THE YEAES. 

All alone, in my easy-chair, 

I sat and watched the fire-light's glow 
Loitering, dallying, here and there, 

Faltering, flickering high and low. 
Very tired, and a trifle sad, 

I closed my eyes, with a little sigh 
Born of the thought of an idle wish 

The West Wind brought as he hurried by. 



THE PALACE OF THE FEARS, 319 

And there I sat, with fast-closed eyes, 

Counting the old clock's measured beat, 
Till, soft and low, on my startled ear 

A sigh fell tremulous and sweet. 
And, glancing up, a soft, proud eye 

Looked kindly on my grieving face ; 
And, like a breath of Orient balm, 

A voice of tender, nameless grace 
Asked why I grieved. I had not thought, 

So softly fell the wind's refrain 
Upon my slumbering, dreaming face, 

The wish had left its silent pain. 
I turned away ; I could not speak ; 

A hand fell gently on my head ; 
He knew the wish, I knew full well ; 

And yet he smiled, and softly said, 
" Come with me ; my palace home 

Is full of wondrous scenes to-night : 
Twelve rooms gleam beneath its dome, 

Each one filled with glowing light ; 
But I warn you some are filled, 

Spite of all their burnished light. 
Shoulder-deep with lonesome things. 

Smell of mould, and rust, and blight." 
I smiled half sadly ; would I halt 

When I longed to see, once more. 
Gems I knew were gathered there 

From the heart's G-olconda store ? 
Treasures I must leave behind 

In the crypt of buried years, 
While I learn to watch and wait 

Patiently, with smiles, not tears ! 
So I followed where he led. 

Through the wide, unechoing halls, 
Awed to silence by the gleam 

Of the picture-lighted walls ; 
Awed to silence by the charm 

Of the weird, enchanted scene. 
And the wealth of treasures rare 

Gathered in unrivalled sheen. . , 



320 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS, 

But I shuddered while I gazed : 

Here and there were " lonesome things ;" 
And I felt a cold, dank chill, 

Like the rush of storm-wet wings. 
But my guide put out his hand 

Tenderly, and gently smiled, 
And I put my hand in his 

With the trusting of a child. 
And we wandered on, and on. 

Till we reached a sun-bright room 
Full of rich and pleasant things, 

Full of fair and fragrant bloom. 
Then he paused, and smiled again, 

Sadly this time, as I wept. 
These were mine,-^ — my treasures fair, 

Safely hoarded, softly kept, — 
Must I leave them here for aye? 

Never more to have or hold 
In my heart their subtile sweets ? 

In my life their lights of gold ? 
Wistfully I prayed, and lo ! 

While the dear guide smiled on me. 
In my feverish palm there lay, 

Wrought of gold, a slender key. 
" Take it, childl 'Twere better not ; 

But who can mock your pleading eyes ? 
If you learn to doubt the worth 

Of the treasures now you prize. 
Turn the key within the lock 

Of this summer-scented room ; 
Leave it there, and go your way 

In the silence and the gloom." 
I turned to kiss the dear, white hand 

That laid the slender key in mine; 
'Twas vanished, gone, — alas I alas ! — 

Nor lingered any trace or sign I 
You see 'twas but the weird hour's work, — 

The "Palace" and the "Golden Key" 
Were but creations of an hour 

That dreaming fancy brought to me. 



SUMMER IS DYING! 321 

And the phantom guide was but a myth, 

Dream-born, as was the golden key ; 
Dream-born, as were the palace walls 

That hold the dead years' mystery. 
And yet the dream held germs of truth; 

For Memory has a golden key ; 
And, in the Palace of the Years, 

One room's sacred unto me. 
I've gathered all my treasures there, — 

My cherished and my own ; 
How fair, how dear they are to me 

May ne'er be guessed or known. 
And when I'm tired and lonesome, dear, 

I'll take my key of slender gold, 
And walk adown those palace halls 

To one bright door of mystic mould. 
I'll enter there, dear friend, and feast 

My wistful heart with life's sweet wine ; 
For, in the Palace of the Years, 

Some sweet alchemy divine 
Has turned the shadows into light. 

The bitterness to songs of praise, 
And all the hours to golden dreams 

Of fairer, brighter, happier days. 
1877. 



SUMMEE IS DYING! 

Summer is dying ! wan and sweet, 

She lies 'mid the golden glory 
Of amber lights and odors fleet. 

Fair Sibyl of life's story. 
Across the purpling hills and vales 

A subtile mist-like splendor 
Fashions all the muttering gales 

To threnodes wild and tender. 

The sapphire skies, so bright yestreen, 
To-day are full of sadness ; 

The Autumn's rich, ungarnered sheen 
Has naught of Summer's gladness; 
27* 



322 OSMUND A LEAVES AND LUPINE SPRAYS. 

It fills the earth with nameless pain, 
The heart with nameless sorrow ; 

Hope seems a dream so vague and vain, 
We fear the unborn morrow. 

And — Summer is dying ! wan and sweet, 

Her palms are crossed death-fashion ; 
Her mission o'er, her life complete. 

An end to pain and passion. 
Ah ! would my life were at a close ! 

Tired hands death-crossed forever; 
Tired feet, tired heart in blest repose, 

Disturbed by sorrow never 1 

And — Summer is dying like a dream 

We've held too sweet for guessing, — 
A priceless gem, a deathless beam 

Too dear for our possessing ; 
Fold her vesture neat and straight. 

Oh! Autumn winds, be tender! 
Lay her where the sunbeams wait 

The longest in their splendor! 

Summer is dead — is dead, — and I 

Stand 'mid the Autumn glory 
Thinking, alas! of a happier sky, 

And a sweet, unfinished story 
Folded away with the Summer gleams 

And their evanescent splendor, — 
A story of beautiful broken dreams. 

As pitiful as tender. 



FATA MOEGANA. 

'TwiXT sleeping and waking, I dreamily lie 

Through half-closed eyes watching the down-drooping 

sky; 
Anon, through the dreamy air, palaces loom, 
Half-hidden in flowers of wonderful bloom'j 



FATA MORGANA. 323 

And beautiful castles with turrets of gold 
Grieam through the glamour of splendors untold. 

Magnificent forests, tall, stately, and grand, 

Like bands of old monarchs majesticly stand ; 

And hills crowned with verdure and baptized with light 

Suspended in air meet my dream-clouded sight. 

Too weary to wonder, I lie still, and seem 

To move with the strange, panoramical dream. 

All the while thinking, sadly, how vague and untrue 

Is the beautiful pageant exposed to my view ; 

I open my eyes, the fair picture is fled. 

And Icaden-gray skies meet my vision instead ; 

I cover my eyes with a shiver of pain. 

Hoping to woo back the bright dream again. 

But, waiting is fruitless and hojDing is vain, 

The beautiful vision will not come again ; 

The fair, stately castles with turrets of gold 

Are shrouded from view by the cloud's angry fold ; 

The green hills have vanished, the tall forest-trees 

No more bow their heads to the murmuring breeze. 

Ah ! Fata Morgana, thy mystic wand seems 

To wield a weird influence o'er poor mortals' dreams ! 

They're mournful and sad at thy sovereign command, 

Or glow ardent-bright 'neath thy all-potent wand.-^ 

The brightest, the dearest, alas ! fade away ! 

And night settles over the noontide of day ! 



BARBERRY. 



BAEBEEEY. 

They who seek, in " sportive mood," I 

With edged tools to play. 
Must not forget that others may ; 

Be just as skilled as they. *! 

In other words, as maxim old 

Full many a count has scored, 
" They that take the sword" — themselves ■ 

" Shall perish with the sword." i 

1887. 



, '' CONSIDEE THE BEAM IN THINE OWN 
EYE." 

A REPLY TO "woman," BY H. P. 

You " think us angels." Well, who's to blame 
That we're not worthy to wear the name ? 
You say that 'neath our sunniest smile 
Lurk cunning deceit and thoughts of guile, — 
If men's hearts were pure as their words are fair 
The smiles would be true that woman'' s lips wear! 

If the fruits that stain your finger-tips 
Were sweet and cool to our thirsty lips, 
No " Dead Sea fruit" to yours would be pressed, 
No "Dead Sea ashes" within your breast; 
" The measure ye mete" — be careful, then — 
Shall be meted out to you again ! 
324 



TO HARRY F. 325 

Trust the "treacherous ice" if you will; 
Men's hearts are oft more treacherous still. 
The " serpent's folds" no deadlier prove 
Than the baleful blight of some men's love. 
The lesson within inan's soul must burn, — 
The lesson he'd fain make woman learn ! 



" Eve's honeyed words" were gladlj^ believed ; 
Adam, too willing to be deceived ; 
All the Eves that have lived since then 
Have found his traits in the most of men. 
Then pshaw ! what folly to cry " beware^' 
Since man so gladly falls in the " snare !" 

Alas ! how often a " woman's tears" 
Are shed for the dark and wasted years 
Of some man's life, when his footsteps stray 
Out of the right and beautiful way ! 
Call them "crocodile" and pass them by; 
Man brings them oftenest to the eye ! 

Drop your old motto, adopt a new, 
Be yourself constant, and tender, and true. 
And woman will have no need to deceive 
With " crocodile tears" and follies that grieve, 
With Dead Sea apples in lieu of the fair. 
Sweet fruits that man in his goodness would share ! 
1871. 



TO HAEEY F. 



Ah ! Harry, man-like, you are swift to decide 
That the cause I've espoused is the " weaker side," , 
Because 'tis not yours ; men are prone to think thus, 
Because Grod created them stronger than us. 
But granting I have, isn't it generous and right 
To aid the weak side in an unequal fight ? 



326 BARBERRY. 

When I " quoted from Scripture," the holy and true, 
'Twas done with all meekness and reverence due ; 
And I fail to perceive wherein I have erred, 
Taken from, or added aught to the sacred word. 
My manner of speech from no sacrilege springs ; 
God forbid /should "trifle with sacred things!" 

I was adding no jot to sayings divine, 
But merely expressing a belief of mine, 
When I said father Adam was glad to believe 
The soft, honeyed accents of poor tempted Eve. 
It is safe to infer thus much from the fact 
That it nowhere declares he resisted the attack. 

If the greater curse has fallen upon us, 
The Father knows best why 'twas ordered thus. 
Adam's goodness had nothing to do, I trow. 
With shielding his head from the heavier blow. 
God's designs are inscrutable to mortal ken ; 
And His wisdom unquestioned by sons of men. 

If Satan had whispered his lies to the man 
You think 'twould have surely frustrated his plan ; 
That Adam's infallible will would have crushed 
The whole vile scheme and his sophistries hushed. 
From Adam till now ye are all of a clan ; 
Yanity of vanities, thy name is man ! 

" Man's love for the woman caused him to falV^ ? 

My friend, that's the lamest excuse of all; 

His love should have guarded with tenderest care 

His innocent wife from the Evil One's snare. 

Instead, he believed, as I stated before. 

Then laid his own guilt at his tempted wife's door. 

/hold that a man, to be "noble and brave," 

Will crim'nate none other his own fame to save ! 

1 

"Men's faults do cause ours," in one certain sense; 
Our pride and respect are our only defence i 

'Gainst their uncertain moods and the smiles they wear, \ 
Which often prove but a delusion and snare j j 



TO HARRY F. 327 j 

\ 

Then we grow inconstant, at least, appear to, .; 

To shield our sore hearts from the world's dreaded \ 

view. \ 

If I've " failed to prove your assertion untrue," ! 

I know you are wrong, and you know it, too. ' 

A true woman's love is a far purer gem j 
Than ever yet shone in a king's diadem. 

All nien have possessed one true love, if no more, — : 

The unselfish love that their own mothers bore. ; 

Woman's frailties should never be subject for jest 

To the lips that drew life from a woman's fond breast ; 

For her sake alone — if no sister's heart aches j 

With the strange, sudden pain that such jesting awakes — ) 

Man should pity our faults, not bruit them about, 

A subject for mirth to the commonest lout. ■ 

Let me add one word more ere I lay down the quill : 

You may doubt woman's truth and faith if you will ; I 

But hide the sad fact, and never again i 

Let it furnish a theme for your jesting pen, ; 

For the sake of your sisters, and the aged feet that \ 

stand 

E'en now on the verge of the happier land. i 

1871. : 



POMEGRANATE SEEDS, 



1887. 



POMBGEANATB SEEDS. 

Blithe little Kitty, hold your hands, 

And shut your eyes quite tightly ; 
Under the hedge I found, this morn, 

A something glowing brightly. 
I picked it up, and smiling said 

I'll puzzle bonny Kitty ! 
So shut your eyes and hold your hands, 

And guess what I've got pretty. 

'Tis about as large as orange sweet, — 

'Tis round, and pulpy-meated ; 
And close within the juicy heart 

Its seeds are deeply-seated. 
You cannot guess ? Ha-ha, sweet Kate ! 

Just ope your eyes and scan it ; 
And so I give it to you, dear, — 

This ripe, and rare Pomegranate ! 



"CHAGEIK" 
"a spelling bee" catastrophe.' 

Part I. 

'Tis evening ! — over the busy town 
The starshine hangs its silver crown, 
And lamp-light streams where the sunlight fell, 
Hushing the hour with its wizard spell. 
328 



" CHAGRIN.'' 329 

Up in the hall where Justice presides 

Marshal the clans of opposing sides. 

A mighty battle is on the " tapis," 

That weird elf-battle,— " A Spelling Bee!" 

Our " Captains" lead in the elfin fray ; 

A volley is fired, — the smoke clears away,— 

No one is wounded, — no one is dead, — 

The minutes pass with a muffled tread. 

Again it comes ; but the elfin shot 

Are mere pith-balls, and harm us not ! 

But the battle waxes fierce and high ; 

The shot fall thick, and a muffled sigh 

Thrills through the ranks in battle array, — 

" Somebody's Darling is borne away /" 

But we may not pause to drop a tear ; 

Our own death-song rings in our ear ; 

And hearts beat fast with a muffled dread 

As the ranks are thinned by the elfin lead. 

Our " Captains" are " hit," and borne away ; 

But it brings no pause in the wizard fray ; 

No " bivouac'^ 'neath Utopian trees 

Allures with dreams of tranquil ease. 

What's life worth when all hope is gone ? 

"With ^^ caoutchouc'' zeal we battle on ! — 

Alack and alas ! from an ambushed lair 

A wizard shot cuts through the air 

Like a lightning flash from a sky serene, — 

I'm vanquished — wounded — lost! — " Chagrin /" 

Part 11. 

'Tis midnight ! Over the restless town 
The Angel of Sleep comes softly down ; 
She flits about with 'bated breath, 
And the restless town grows still as death. 
Up in a chamber silence-blest 
A snowy couch invites to rest ; 
But the restless brain is busy still, 
And the hot cheeks flush with a subtile thrill. 
She is dreaming now, and over her head 
The battle wages fierce and dread. 
28 



330 POMEGRANATE SEEDS. \ 

A Pedagogue of colossal size j 

Haunts her dreams with reproachful eyes ; j 

And a Dictionary, two feet square, . 

Confronts her with an elfish stare. ' 

But ornithorhynchus, cierge, and bleyrae / 
Are " dished" as quick as a meteor gleam ; 
And meerschaum, eyrie, diaphragm, 

Are swallowed in a happy calm ; \ 

While bagatelle and vinaigrette, \ 

Kleptomania, — mignonette, ; 

Iridescent, — ophicleide, ; 
With easy haste are tossed aside. 

But a storm brews fast ! Alack ! alack I j 

The lightnings flash, — the clouds grow black, — | 
The sweet light fades to a fitful spark ; 

The waves leap high round the poor frail bark ; | 

The thunder's crash and the wild sea's roar i 

Bar all help from the friendly shore, — j 

The treacherous rocks hide just below ' 

The emerald billows' crest of snow ; ] 

The sails are rent, — the masts careen, — . \ 

She strikes the rocks — goes down — " Chagrin !" j 

Part TIL 

'Tis all the time! over the land 
The sweet Spring waves her scented hand. 

A zephyr from Utopian bowers I 
Crowns the earth with wreaths of flowers ; 

Birds sing gayly, — sunshine weaves | 

Summer's coronal of leaves ; j 

The glad earth rises in her pride, ] 

Tossing her winter wraps aside ; | 

The clouds bivouac on sapphirine plains ; j 

The sunset drops in opaline stains 1 

Adown the steps of the golden West, i 

As Phoebus goes to his nightly rest. .] 

The stars come out as the sunset chimes ^ 

Drift like a wave of scented rhymes, j 

Softly adown the shining stair | 
The Twilight hangs in the pulsing air. 



THE OLD UMBERELLER, 331 

Heaven and earth are fair, so fair ! 
I fold my palms with a wordless prayer, 
And watch the panoramic scene 
Unfold in all its glorious sheen. 
Presto ! All is cold and drear! 
The song-birds furl their wings in fear ! 
The flowers shrink from the cruel blast, — 
The sunset glories vanish fast, — 
The clouds' bivouac is rudely marred, — 
The sentinel stars are caught " off guard ;" 
Out of the East comes a shivering wind 
Trailing its wet robes far behind, — 
Elfin voices shiver and wail 
']N"eath the wrath of the wizard gale ; 
Out of the sky — so late serene — 
Wails a voice, — Chagrin! Chagrin! 
May 4, 1875. 



THE OLD UMBERELLER. 

How dear to my heart is this old umbereller ! 

This big umbereller I pensively view ! 
Though broken its ribs, and its hue umber-yeller, 

'Tis far more expressive than when it was new ; 
For under its umbrage how swiftly the incense 

Of slumbering passion exhaled on the air 
The breath of its fragrance in plenitude intense, 

That sought with its sweetness my heart to ensnare! 
This old umbereller, this big umbereller, 

That sought, with its romance, my heart to ensnare ! 

This old umbereller I'll keep as a treasure ; 

A flat contradiction of adage profane. 
That weaves for the close of each ludicrous measure 

This imbecile saw of its ancient refrain. 
In city and country, in hamlet and village. 

This pitiful legend our spirits have learned, 



332 POMEGRANATE SEEDS. 

And though we recoil from the mere thought of 
pillage, 

" A loaned umbereller is never returned !" 
A nice umbereller, a good umbereller, 

" A loaned umbereller is never returned !" 

An imbecile yarn that, in romantic fashion, 

This old umbereller has blown to the moon, 
As back to my keeping, with "narry" new splash on 

Its mottled rotunda, it came pretty soon. 
And close in the wake of its sudden returning 

A saccharine missive courageously sped, 
Athrob with the breath of the passion-fires burning, 

This old umbereller unwittingly fed, — 
This old umbereller, this big umbereller. 

This loaned umbereller unwittingly fed ! 

How droll is the thought that this old umbereller 

Should breed 'mid its whalebones a romance so fine. 
And weave from the shade of its hue, umber-yeller, 

A chaplet to garland the fickle god's shrine ; 
That out from the mists of a transcendent glamour 

A mortal immortal should venture to stray, 
And graciously bargain to render his palm for 

The old umbereller I lent him one day, — 
The big umbereller, the worn umbereller. 

The old umbereller I lent him one day 1 

Oh I lovers romantic, who pine for promotion. 

And crave for your banners some blazonry rare ! 
Oh ! take for your symbol this quixotic notion 

A little bird caught from the threads of the air: 
Embroider with bay and Forget-Me-Not posies. 

And shadowy fingers half hidden from view ; 
A glimmer of sunshine, a glamour of roses. 

An old umbereller of uncertain hue, — 
A big umbereller, a worn umbereller. 

An old umbereller of uncertain hue ! 
1886. 



RHYMES A LA LONGFELLOW. 333 



EHYMES A LA LONGFELLOW. ' 

Tell me not in solemn twaddle 
Marriage's all a blissful dream ; 

I'm not such a simple noddle, 

And men are not what they seem ! 

Men are jealous ! Men are " risky !" 
Men are cross and hard to please ; 

Fond of wassail, pipes, and whiskey, 
Dolce far niente, and selfish ease ! 

Much of worry, much of sadness, 

Is the woman's daily life 
Who merged all of earthly gladness 

In the one thought, — marriage ! — wife ! 

Toil is long, and Love is fleeting, 
'' Courting manners" laid aside 

With the wane of Love's fond greeting. 
And the maid becomes a bride. 

In the heart's romantic dreaming 

Love burns on till latest life. 
But how oft its wretched seeming 

Mocks the disappointed wife ! 

And the future, howe'er pleasant, 

Bears no solace for her pain j 
While the dreary, loveless present 

Mocks her with its wishes vain. 

Lives of " old maids" oft remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; — 



334 POMEGRANATE SEEDS. 

Footprints that perhaps some sister 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn, derided spinster, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Then away ! Such empty twaddle ! 

I've endured it long enough 1 
I'm not such a simple noddle 

To believe such silly stuff. 

What's the difference, wife or maiden. 
So we keep our own hearts true ? 

Pleasure-fanned or sorrow-laden, 
We have still enough to do. 

Then away ! I'm tired, disgusted ! 

Men are priggish, selfish things ; 
Half the time they can't be trusted 

Far from woman's apron-strings ! 

Half the time they're silly creatures, 
Borne about by every whim ; 

And then they turn long-winded preachers, 
Boring us with logic dim. 

Don't I know it? Haven't I seen it? 

You are one of them, you know ; 
What's the use to hide or screen it ? 

Men are bound to boast and " crow." 

Then away ! Such empty twaddle ! 

I've endured it long enough ! 
I'm not such a simple noddle 

To believe such silly stuff. 



N.B.—N.B.— Don't make faces ! 

I don't mean half of what I've said 
Men are nice things — in their places ; 

I want to "shut up" Cousin Ned. 



THE '' DISTRICT' SCHOOL IN WINTER. 335 

But I hope he'll learn no better — 
N.B. second. — Don't you tell 1 

I've long been his patient debtor, 
And to-night I've paid him well ! 



THE "DISTRICT" SCHOOL IN WINTER. \ 

Shades of the " G-rand old Masters," 1 

Spooks of the " Bards Sublime," \ 
Come from the shadowy shadows 

To these modern halls of time, i 

And teach a weary mortal i 

Some new stupendous rules^ — 1 

Some grand and sure specific \ 

For teaching " Winter Schools.'' i 

When boys, from the six-year-olders \ 

To boys with mustachios, ' 
And girls in long-sleeved aprons 

To girls with " bangs" and bows (and beaux), i 

Are crowded a mixed menagerie, — j 

A sort of human " zoo" j 

Of various grades and tempers, j 

And various things they know (and don't know, — 

mostly don't knoiv). i 

And each must have the lessons 

That fill the busy day ; ; 
Even the little sinners 

That only want to play. i 

Ah ! the hundred and one devices ! 

To keep them all in tune, : 

Would fill the mystic measures i 

Of a Scandinavian rune, \ 

And puzzle the " Grand old Masters," i 

And vex the " Bards Sublime," ' 

Till genius scarce could mutter ; 
A solitary rhyme ! 



336 POMEGRANATE SEEDS. 

Oh I teaching school in Autumn 
Is not the worst of work ; 

And teaching school in Spring-time 
Doth not the soul so irk ; 

But spare me from the Winter, 

The Winter cold and drear, 
And its multifarious gathering 

Of children far and near. 
And the old forgotten precepts, 

I taught a year ago, 
Come back, a weary reflux 

Of lessons dull and slow ! 
January, 1885. 



PAPEE COLLAES. 

Honor our heroes ! our dear, dead Braves ! 
Plant immortelles on their cherished graves; 
Bring from the quarries of ages unknown 
Treasures of marble and glittering stone, 
And rear them above their dreamless heads ; 
And heap them about their silent beds ; 
But bless the man, be he youthful or old, 
Handsome or ugl}^, fearful or bold. 
Who first made Paper Collars ! 

Sing of the South Land's radiant skies ; 
Sing of your sweetheart's starry eyes ; 
Sing of the fountain's crystalline flow. 
The diamond's light, the ruby's glow. 
The shimmer of gold, the pearl's pale sheen. 
The opal's fire, the emerald's green ; • 
But bless the man, be he youthful or old, 
Handsome or ugly, fearful or bold, 
Who first made Paper Collars ! 

Ah ! think of the fingers blistered and red, 
Think of the achings of back and of head, 



PAPER COLLARS. 337 

"Ironing collars," faultless and fine, 
Striving to get the immaculate " shine'' 
To please the eye of fastidious man ; 
And then be ungrateful and cold, if you can, 
To that dear man, be he youthful or old, 
Handsome or ugly, fearful or bold. 
Who first made Paper Collars ! 

Ah ! rear for your loved ones monuments fair ; 
Crown them with chaplets of flowers most rare ; 
Garland their names with the perfume of song; 
Cherish their fame and their memory long; 
But rear us a statue, colossal and grand. 
In the fairest spot of our sunny land. 
In honor of him, be he youthful or old. 
Handsome or ugly, fearful or bold. 
Who first made Paper Collars ! 



THE END. I 

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